tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261592522018-03-07T00:47:35.844+08:00Servings of Mania.A PotPourri of Sorts. Short stories. Nonsense. Satire. Personal Mumbo-Jumbo. Sneers and Tears.Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-59547742405170874782013-05-02T18:11:00.002+08:002013-05-02T18:34:28.299+08:00How to dress 'modestly' and preserve Indian culture.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You must be aware of the rapes happening in Delhi. Or in India for that matter. We are proud of our culture. We are proud that we may be having the largest number of male chauvinistic pigs in the world. We are proud that we as women, cannot walk alone in the Capital safe. We as women cannot dress 'provocatively' nor speak out our minds. Because guess what, any man on the street can take one look at us, grab his crotch and rape us.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To avoid all that problem, we do have a solution.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My patented 'Keep-yourself-from-being-raped-Dress'. This costs almost little. We charge extra for cutting out a hole for you to breathe. However no holes will be cut out for your eyes, as even one glimpse of your eyes could make a potential rapist go mad with lust. In addition you may use wires or steel cables to tether the dress to yourself so that even HurricanE Sandy cannot expose you accidentally. Alternatively you could nail the dress to your body a la-Jesus style.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gYBL68ZQbPo/UYI4QJxQwnI/AAAAAAAAH2E/DNoPs8_YUGY/s1600/24435_10152450683190393_530187671_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gYBL68ZQbPo/UYI4QJxQwnI/AAAAAAAAH2E/DNoPs8_YUGY/s400/24435_10152450683190393_530187671_n.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><br /><div>NOTE - THIS IMAGE IS COPYRIGHTED AND NOT TO BE REPLICATED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION.</div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/QgnyuEQu-k4" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com0http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2013/05/how-to-dress-modestly-and-preserve.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-38211572967079645312013-04-05T14:06:00.005+08:002013-04-05T14:07:10.520+08:00My Malayali-half's anguish.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It is only recently that I got interested in Kerala’s culture and stuff. Not that being called a ‘Madrasi’ in Gujjuland did ever make me 'feel' Madrasi.<br />However digging back into my family's history, I found a lot of interesting stuff. How my mother’s family originates in a place called <span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Thalassery</span>, a British stronghold, where they probably traded in spices, from where they ran to Ponnani when Hyder Ali attacked it. In Ponnani the family ‘got into the warehouse business’ which as I understand has something to do with constructing warehouses and probably leasing them out to the Company. Anyway Hyder Ali’s atrocities against the Nairs which included forced conversions into Islam and deportation to Kanara forced my ancestors to flee to their present place near Shoranur. I’m told that we had an elephant in the house since it was a sign of affluence. I still have memories from my childhood where the lower castes while talking to my paternal grandmother would not cover their upper body, stand with their arms folded across their chests as a mark of respect and talk in low voices, and move out of the way when we passed them. Of course those customs have vanished since then.<br />Some old stuff from the ancestral house revealed wooden parasols used to shield the Nair women from being ‘looked at’ by outsiders when they went outside as well as daily-use objects like ‘bhasma-kottas (baskets containing holy ash, hung outside the houses for anyone entering the house) or huge wooden containers used for storing grains or even mud-houses for hens. These things have been replaced by modern appliances and utensils and I often see myself digging into wooden chests or dragging my hands across the walls in long-shut rooms trying to read the stories etched on their surfaces. Waking up to the smell of smoke from burning wood in the kitchens, sleeping to the swish-swish of wooden hand-held fans, while outside the fragrance of jasmine and paarijatam pervaded the night, mixing with that of ripening mangoes and jackfruits. It was easier in those days to believe that all was indeed well with the world and that as long as we cared for Mother Nature, she would take care of us too. Now going back into the long-locked rooms of my memories, I pull and pull at moments spent in bliss, climbing mango trees, chasing hens, riding buffaloes, tagging along with the cowherds that took our cows out to pasture, bare-footed, being bitten by red ants, sitting next to the cows and calves in the cowshed cooing sweet-nothings into their ears, jumping into the stream to cool off on hot afternoons, walking 2 kilometres to the nearest auto or bus stand, luring the pet dogs to hide under the dining table so that the vegetables on my plate would find greedy takers, lying on big rocks in the rubber estate only to be scared by scorpions and other creepy crawlies, trying to milk the cows and get kicked in the process, hunt for snakes in the grass with puffed-up-chests only to run screaming into the hands of the nearest adult on spotting one..….<br /><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yet it is more and more difficult to connect those days with the present. The disconnect is so jarringly obvious that I shut my eyes to stop them from pouring out. And as time passes, these memories get more and more difficult to pull out, refusing to come out from their spider-webbed, dusty long-forgotten corners of the mind.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/A2U27y86gHI" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com0http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2013/04/my-malayali-halfs-anguish.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-73942072197597681112012-10-10T20:30:00.000+08:002013-05-02T18:33:06.787+08:00Dream.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">She paid the taxi-guy ten bucks more. She was always generous when she was happy. Like today, when she had decided to celebrate her new-found singledom by travelling. The station was crowded as stations always are. But she minded not. A spring in her step, a buoyancy in her movements, not in the least helped by those glasses of wine she had gulped down earlier in the day, while shedding tears over her wasted years. No, not to dwell on that, she pursed her lips and made her way to where the Luxury-on-Wheels train waited. Gleaming metal, garish colors, it was exactly how Bollywood depicted royalty in their trashy movies. Not that she minded this either. All she wanted to do was get away from her past, her almost present and look forward to freedom. She felt like an inmate released from a prison, well that was what it was, then, she was sure. She bought two cans of Red-Bull to go with the KFC ZingKong box she had bought on the way.<br />She looked around at the milling passengers of the Luxury Train. There were only two Indians, herself and another guy. She decided then and there, looking at the software-type-look on his face, to avoid speaking to him at all costs, and turned her face away with a scowl as soon as he waved at her in a fit of enthusiasm.<br /><br />Her suitcases were settled in her coupe. Unfortunately because she booked at the last minute, she would have to share the coupe with another passenger. She prayed aloud asking God to not make the&nbsp;disheveled-geeky-Indian guy her 'partner'. The coupe door opened. She turned around to find some white-guy in a red tee and cargo shorts trying to fit through the door, not that the door was narrow or anything. He thrust one leg inside and placed down a knapsack with a thud, which landed on his foot. Releasing a string of curses, he turned at that moment to look at her, suddenly aware that there was someone other than him, there.<br />She gasped as a flicker of recognition ran across his face, then dimmed. She too thought he looked familiar. There was something about his green eyes that made her stare at him open-mouthed.<br />Unable to place each other, both went back to doing their own thing.<br />While he was settling down, she studied him. His muscles strained under his tee, and she wanted to reach out and touch the whiteness of his well-formed calves.<br />'What the fuck', she said aloud to herself.<br />'Excuse Me?', he said, looking at her, and again, there, that glimmer of recognition.<br />'No, not to you, I was just muttering to myself.' she smiled showing him her pearly white teeth.<br />She was glad she had put in all that effort to dress up. Not that she needed to. At thirty-five, she still had a body that was the envy of her friends. No matter how much she ate, the fat showed in only the right places. Suddenly she felt sexy. Maybe there was some chance, after all. This was it, her life was starting now, right now, from this moment forward. She was going to do exactly what she wanted. She was going to flirt and party and live her own fucking life, the way she wanted to.<br /><br />Dinner was served in the resto-lounge and she sat alone, looking out of the window at the glimmering lights passing by. More wine, followed by desserts was all she had. She looked for her 'roomie' but did not find him. He seemed to have come alone. He was attractive, no doubts about it. He did look middle-aged, but like her, had a trim body. She shook her head and returned to her room, suddenly remembering the KFC package. Her co-passenger stirred from his berth and poked out his head out of his blanket. 'How was the dinner?' he asked.<br />'It was good, if u like Indian food that is' she answered, inspite of the huskiness the wine gifted her voice.<br />'I do, I have stayed here for more than a decade', he smiled, sitting up with one arm around his pillow, one leg dangling.<br />'Really? Where are you from? I mean, why would you stay here?' she sat on the couch facing him, her legs placed on the foot of his bed.<br />'Austria, but my mum shifted to India because she thought it would keep me away from all the bad things the Western World apparently has. Well it is a long story'...he chuckled.<br />'Who is in a rush?' she chuckled.<br />'Some wine?' she offered, pointing to the bottles on the table.<br />'Let me', He rose and poured out a glass for each of them.<br />'Can I tell u something? his finger drew patterns on the glass. 'U actually kind of freaked me out. I felt like I knew you, I thought you were someone I used to know once.'<br />'Oh My God! Did you? Because it felt like that to me too! I thought I recognized you but I was sure I was mistaken..'<br />They looked at each other, their eyes unblinking, as the recognition dawned on them.<br />'Oh My God. Oh My God. Oh My God.' She jumped up from her seat, toppling the wine bottle, thankfully empty.<br />'It can't be. It can't be' he whispered.<br />Stunned silence followed the revelation.<br />What a small world, she would have thought, had she been not so shocked. But for her past to return after twenty years was something she would never have thought of, in her wildest dreams.<br /><br />The images came rushing to their eyes. Their minds went out to their days at school when stolen moments alone gifted them the memories they had held onto, tight, all these years.<br />It had to be Destiny playing a game with them, It had to be Fate.<br />The shock turned to happiness and then to embarrassment, as they relieved the memory, both in their own minds, of how they had separated. Pressed by circumstances and by their own fears, they had let go of each other, only to torment themselves with their hidden yearnings. She was not sure of him, but she had thought about him often. Sometimes she found herself dreaming of him making love to her. She had wondered what it would have been like, had they been just a little grown up, had they met when they were grown-ups. They would probably have given it a shot. Their relationship that is. The silent questions whirled in their heads until they, both at once, blurted them out, tossed them out like blabbering fish.<br /><br />'I have looked for you, and found your Myspace profile, and tried to access your pictures. I was not sure if it was you, because you look so different now.' He cupped her face and spoke earnestly. 'Look at me', he said. 'Look at me, and tell me you never forgot me'.<br />The hug they had indulged in a while ago felt starkly hot. She sank her face into his chest, onto where his heart beat, wildly while her own thumped. She was not in a train, a moving train anymore, she was back in school. Back to when she had only discovered her womanhood, and so had he. When he himself was in a school uniform, stealing glances at her whenever he could, passing on small gifts to her stealthily, avoiding the watchful eyes of their teachers and friends. When their first kiss felt like nothing they had ever felt before, and nothing they would feel ever after. Nothing mattered now. Nothing.<br /><br />He enveloped his arms around him. She felt safe. Warm. Loved. As this feeling of peace gave way to a hot throbbing deep inside her, she felt his body tensing. She pulled him closer to her, almost throttling him in the process, afraid that he was going to pull away. He stiffened, then relaxed, and now brought her body ever so close to his own. As his hot mouth closed over hers, she wanted them to fuse together, melt in their passion, wash away their lust into nothingness. She felt his manhood acknowledging her presence and trembled as her stomach gurgled when she felt someone splash water on her face.<br /><br />She looked up to see her co-passenger holding a glass of water in his hand and offering her a tablet.<br /><br />'Are u allright? U have had too much wine I suppose?' He smiled as he pointed to the empty bottles lying on the table next to her bed.</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/jwLKrdeiZRg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com1http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/10/dream.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-34672807542227190602012-07-26T00:10:00.000+08:002013-06-20T19:29:00.290+08:00My Best Friend.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She is my new best friend. I love everything about her. To tell the truth, I USED TO love everything about her. But I no longer do. I'm scared now and racked with guilt. There is no single moment that I recall, no single moment that I recall ever being free of her obsession. You see, she is obsessive to the degree of killing me, if I so much as even think of other things. No fantasies, no smiles, no happiness. These are the things I agreed to give up when she approached me for friendship. I was too naive then. Far too naive to know how cruel she could be. I wish I had the guts to ask her to leave. But I'm a coward. A fool.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The woman has dark circles under her eyes. She frets and impatiently chews he nails. She seems in her early forties but appears much older. She jumps up when the receptionist calls out 'Mrs Linner' and almost dashes against the desk on her way to the door.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The doctor looks up from the giant desk, behind which he is seated. Immediately his eyes are clouded with pity for this weak yet strong woman.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I'm just so tired, Doctor. I'm just so exhausted. How can I help her if she refuses to see reason?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"You need to deal with it, minute by minute, day by day, month by month. We have been supporting her for all these eight years. At least you cannot quit on her, not you of all people. Susan, I know this is hard, but You have to keep going. There is only so much that these medicines and therapy can do. Only so much."<br /><br />"How I wish. How I wish." She sighs and clasps the doctor's hands. He puts his hands over hers. They are old friends. He can only do so much, after all. She follows his instructions for the new medications and takes the prescription. He has added some new pills and replaced Valium with another.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mum is back from Mr Roth's. He is a gentle man and doing all that he can. But I know it is of no use. He doesn't know it is now a war between us. It is either my friend or me. She is strong. I wish I had never got into this mess. But it was Kate Moss that did it. And Victoria and Angelina and Paris and Cheryl and all the millions of beautiful women on in Paris and Milan and Munich and Amsterdam and everywhere.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;">You would understand if you saw me grow up. Even though my initial years were centred around huge tables laden with enormous amounts of food, the house over-run with guests each day, every day; a laughing Mum and Dad shushing us and piling our plates high with all kinds of eatable stuff, Even though any other kid would have exchanged her best stuff with me to be brought up in a house like this, filled with love and all things nice and wonderful, she would never have know the agony of being called names at school. 'Dumpling', 'Mattress', 'Fatass', 'Hippo' were names that gnawed at my insides, hours after school, in the nights, making me stay awake for long hours, crying silent tears into my pillow, gasping for breath because the grief just mashed my heart into a pulp. Not being able to walk like the others, not being able to avoid doubling over with sheer breathlessness after a two-minute walk or run, not being able to fit into pretty little dresses like my eight-year old classmates. Even now, I can relive every single taunt, every single jeer from those days. And only my best friend stays by me. Then how can I&nbsp;push&nbsp;her off, just like that, tell me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mrs Linner is inconsolable. Mr Linner holds her throughout the ceremony. It is mercifully, brief. The coffin is being displayed for the guests to say their final goodbyes. Inside is the skeleton of a gal who was once beautiful and lively. Skeleton. Because Amy's body is only a heap of bones. Her gaunt face stares even with the eyes closed. The skin pale and white, like chalk used to whitewash walls. Her skin is transparent and you would think it would split open if you looked for a while too long. Her elbows and knees jut out. Her lips are already black and her mouth a black hole with tepid breath and rotting teeth. Who is this gal? The guests wonder. These guests who have&nbsp;seen&nbsp;her transformed from a healthy adorable child into the pitiable, tiny teenager lying in this coffin. Some of them think, Death was a tad too long in the coming. And Amy should have been mercifully put out much earlier. However all is as the Good Lord insists. However they cannot but help shudder to think that something as evil as this could exist in their midst.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">The eulogies are read. The farewells said.</span><span style="background-color: transparent;">&nbsp;The goodbyes offered. Mrs Linner insists on sitting next to the coffin the whole time. While it is lowered into the ground, she flings herself upon it. 'Forgive me. Forgive me, Amy, for I could not help you', she cries pitifully. Mr Roth is there too, teary-eyed.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">***</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">I was scared when the lid closed. I wished I could comfort my mother. I tried to get up and hold her, but I could not. Something stuck me to the coffin bottom, glued me to it. I could only peer at the faces of the persons who looked in. Some gasped, some shuddered, some cried. But they all loved me. That much I knew. I was scared again when the earth closed around me in my little box, but then suddenly as soon as all the mud was around me and I could no longer hear it falling over, I felt a deep peace come upon me. When I woke up I was here. In this beautiful open place smelling of a thousand flowers in full bloom and the green grass and moss and dew, with a hundred birds chirping. I can go to my special window and look down at Mum and Dad and see them hobbling along on their grief-laden feet. I no longer feel pity for them. I find that I'm incapable of feeling anything except a&nbsp;tremendous&nbsp;feeling of calm and lightness. I know they will join me here, when the time comes.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">I'm peaceful and alone.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">My best friend of nine years, my possessive friend, the one who killed me is no longer with me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/3Yo3YkQ8TYY" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com4http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/07/my-best-friend.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-63127821798544165102012-07-16T13:51:00.003+08:002012-07-25T23:19:36.264+08:00Great Expectations.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'That is him. That is himmmm!' - Malati called out. She clutched her handbag tight and brought up her hand to where her heart was. It beat wildly. Loudly. Her magenta suitcases fell down on each other, tumbled and collapsed like a house of cards. But she did not notice. They fell about her, while she mouthed 'That is him'.<br />'What nonsense' - Reena snorts. 'That was ages ago. At least now <i>toh</i> forget him.'<br />'But I know it is him....Here, go and ask him." Malati implored.<br />'It could be him, Reena, What makes you so sure it is not?' - piped up Latifa.<br />'<i>Arrey</i> you gals are really mad!!' &nbsp;- Reena retorted.<br />'Seriously Reena, sometimes you are such a snob. Delhi suits you very well. Now forget him, Malati and let us get on with our lives. Where the hell is the taxi-stand?' - Latifa was irritated now. The sweat trickled down her face.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'<i>Bhaiyya</i> - Park Hotel <i>chaloge</i>?' The taxi driver spit out his paan, and grinned at them.<br />'This must be what Yamraaj looks like'.....Reena whispered. The other two giggled.<br />Reena could pass funny comments with an absolutely serious face. Only Reena.<br />'It is sooo hot, I don't know why we had to come to Goa in this heat? Couldn't you have chosen a hill-station, Malati? - Latifa grumbled.<br />Malati laughed - 'Why a hill-station? Why not the Alps? We have been planning to come here from a year now. I could not wait anymore. And remember this is my hen-party. So no frowns. Paste your best smile. We will get drunk and have the best time of our lives.'<br />Reena and Latifa pretended to be unimpressed and looked out of the window. Malati laughed. They joined in.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In their room, the first thing they did was order food 'wine, cheese, beer, whisky, and spicy '<i>kuch-bhi</i>'...<br />Reena said 'That fellow seems decent. He lowered his gaze while we were ordering'<br />Latifa playfully rapped her head 'Of course he lowered. You are wearing the smallest skirt in the whole world. Decent it seems.'<br />By the time their order was delivered, they had showered and dressed. They attacked the wine with gusto, hardly eating anything of the spicy '<i>kuch-bhi</i>' which turned out to be a non-veg platter and the Goan fish curry-rice.<br />'What is the plan? <i>Dekh&nbsp;</i>Malati and Latifa, I&nbsp;don't&nbsp;want to see any churches-temples-mosques. If you want to go,<i> jao</i>. I am fine with lying on the beach and admire the sunset.'<br />'<i>Arrey</i> even we are not interested in doing <i>bhajan-kirtan</i> here. This is Goa, not Vaishno Devi. Latifa, you take the camera, and Reena you take the cosmetics. I will carry the clothes.'<br />They sauntered down the stairs to the reception. It was while turning their keys in at the counter that Reena pinched Malati.<br />'<i>Ouf</i>, bitch. That hurt! What did you do that for?' Malati asked turning around to see Reena's mouth wide open. She was pointing at the doorway, at the valet opening the doors of cars.<br />'That is him. You were right Malati. That is him!' Reena stammered.<br />Latifa whistled.<br />She put her arm around Malati - 'Look. This is your hen-party. You can like, totally do what you want. Call him. Now. And ask him to bring his friends over. We can watch you having all the fun. Quick'<br />Malati shook her head from side to side, horrified - 'But I can't!! I'm getting married next week!! What makes you think I would want to see him. Now?!'<br />Reena muttered 'This one will remain a fool all her life. I will call him.'<br />While Latifa and Malati whispered to each other, Reena walked out and flipped out her mobile phone. While she spoke to the person on the other line, Malati and Latifa were exchanging sly looks and devilish grins.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'Maluuu! I'm sooo glad to see you! What brings you to Goa? And must say you are still a stunner!!' &nbsp;Karan winked and smiled at Latifa and Reena. 'You too ladies! How many years has it been? Five-six?'<br />'Only three years, Karan. You still forget things too easily. We are here for my h.....' Malati was just about to utter the obscenity when Latifa and Reena spoke aloud together 'Promotion party...'<br /><span style="background-color: transparent;">'Yeah, we are here for my er...uh...promotion party....'Malati cooed, regaining control.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent;">'Why don't you join us? Do you have some friends with you, to keep Latifa and I company, while you admire Malati?' Reena fished.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent;">Karan furrowed his brows - 'Not friends, but I can bring some people over. What are you gals doing tonight? Tito's tonight, around 9ish?</span><br />'Perfect - Yeah that would be great. So we will see you tonight then' - Latifa replied while Reena blew him a kiss and Malati smiled.<br /><br />'Don't tell me you are wearing thaaaat, Malati? This will be last free-night of your life and you will NOT be dressed like a <i>behenji</i> tonight.' Reena admonished Malati. She snatched the green dress from Malati's hands and threw it into the corner. Rummaging in her own bag, she produced a red slinky tube-dress and threw it in Malati's face. Latifa grabbed at it and looked at it, delightedly. 'Yes, THIS is what you should wear. Reena is right. I have just the perfect shoes to go with this' she scampered off the bed and sat by her suitcase.<br />'Whatever gals, What would I be without you two drama-queens in my life?' - Malati said. She turned to the mirror. 'Curls or Straight? Winged eyeliner or simple? Tell me gals. I'm going to make him go mad.'<br />The other two rolled their eyes.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'Are we too early? I can't see him anywhere.' Malati looked around,<br />'<i>Arrey tu bhi na.</i> D'u think he is standing here with a coconut tree growing out of his head, just so you notice him?' Reena growled. 'He will find us. Give him some time. Let us order our drinks.'<br />After some 12 large glasses of vodka, neat, on the rocks, had passed between them, a mobile rang. Malati searched inside her tote bag and produced the still ringing cellphone. 'It is Karan' she said.<br />There seemed to be a lot of noise in Karan's background. 'Where are you gals? What are you wearing. I can't find you in this crowd.'<br />'We are outside the disc, just to the right, where the tables are put up. We are right next to them. I am in red, Latifa in magenta and Reena in black.' Malati offered helpfully.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'There is your ex-flame, Malati. Jump him. And remember no regrets. And not a word of this outside' Latifa instructed. Serious, Reena and Malati nodded.<br />Karan was dressed in a body-hugging white vest and jeans. He slung a blazer casually in one hand and held a drink in the other.<br />His jaw fell open when he saw Malati, but he soon looked away. Malati was confused. This was so unlike him. Their relationship had been incompatible, but when it came to lust, both were equally insatiable. They were complete opposites of each other in all but that. The break-up was inevitable as both were head-strong, stubborn and impatient. Their tempestuous relationship had to end and surprisingly it was Karan who had offered to part on an amiable note.<br />'Malati, Malati?' Latifa was shaking her.<br />'Where were you lost? We are talking to you and you are sitting there with an open drooling mouth.' Reena said, tugging at her arm 'Let's go and meet Karan's friends. <i>Chalo, Chalo.</i>'<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;His friends comprised of three guys and two women, none of whom Malati recalled seeing when Karan was courting her. The men were dapper and handsome and seemed friendly. But the women looked over the new-comers and offered no greetings. They were dressed in expensive clothes and in front of them Malati felt she and her friends looked sluttish.<br />Malati offered her hand to one of the women and introduced herself 'Hi, I know Karan from a long time. We were friends in Delhi'<br />The woman smiled coolly.<br />Her icy gaze bore into Malati.<br />'I'm Natasha, Karan's wife. I have known him for four years.'<br />Malati stared.<br />First at Natasha.<br />Then at Karan.<br />His eyes seemed to implore her. His ears turned beetroot red.<br /><span style="background-color: transparent;">Reena pinched Mitali's arm.&nbsp;</span><br />Latifa pretended to brush off something from Malati's hair and whispered 'Not a word' and turned to the Natasha with a grin, asking 'Is that a Chanel you are wearing, um? '</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/ESC_7iPvBKM" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com3http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/07/great-expectations.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-40004659743713125462012-07-13T09:02:00.001+08:002012-07-13T12:04:16.307+08:00Half Broken Things - Morag Joss - book review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Oxk_Svt46mo/T_9zkah2aLI/AAAAAAAAGZU/gAJyGGU3f_w/s1600/HBThings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Oxk_Svt46mo/T_9zkah2aLI/AAAAAAAAGZU/gAJyGGU3f_w/s320/HBThings.jpg" width="198" /></span></a></div><i style="color: #181818; font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 17.27272605895996px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></i><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">This Scottish author won a Silver Dagger Award by the Crime Writers' Association for this wonderfully dark psychological thriller.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Jean is an elderly house-sitter, just asked to leave her job. But not before she finishes her last assignment of taking care of Walden manor, a secluded country home.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Michael is a petty thief who steals church artifacts to get enough cash to buy tinned soup.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Steph is the abused pregnant girlfriend of a brute, who one day gives in to her impulse and runs away from her boyfriend. She runs into Michael and asks him to help her. A reluctant Michael lets her stay at his dingy apartment.</span><br /><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 17.27272605895996px;"><i>(I actually don't want to tell you this meeting, but this situation is so amazing that I cannot NOT tell you!)</i></span></span><br /><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 17.27272605895996px;"><i><br /></i></span></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Jean, meanwhile is so upset by her bleak future, when she will no longer have a job, that she starts to believe Walden manor is her house and slowly takes possession of the house and all the things in it. She even goes so far as to believe that she has had a son in the past whom she has given up for adoption. She places an advertisement in the papers looking for this non-existent son.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Michael chances upon the ad, and comes to meet her. He realizes that she cannot be his mother, yet when he sees the opportunity to live off on this old-woman's fortune, he pretends and makes about as if he is the son. This is a clinching moment in the novel. The silent acknowledgement by both of their taken-for-granted future together as mother and son unravels their doom. Needless to say, Steph is soon accepted as the 'son's wife' and therefore 'loved daughter-in-law'. Steph starts working as a baby-sitter in a nearby house.</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Yet how long before they can continue this utopian existence, this lie they are living in and how long before reality asserts itself?</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">The owners are soon going to return, and the priest of the church from where Michael had once stolen a statue is in the village. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">These two threats set rolling the wheel of doom, that none of them can stop. The end is explosive. Silently explosive.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">The language is beautiful, her use of similes is delightful. The whole time you are reading this book, you want to disbelieve every word in it, yet you are drawn further and further into the book; you want to spit at the characters in disgust because of their fraudulent ways, yet you are drawn to cry for them in pity.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Absolutely wonderful.&nbsp;</span></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/o3S4Is0YVaM" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com0http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/07/half-broken-things-morag-joss-book.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-88990622140333687072012-07-07T16:36:00.001+08:002012-07-22T18:02:34.737+08:00Two Minutes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>I had written this for the <a href="http://www.blogaton.in/search/label/Blog-a-Ton%2029" target="_blank">Blog-A-Ton</a> contest this month, but could could not post the entry due to some nonsensical reasoning by my mind - and I also thought I had written it half-heartedly - anyway here it is :) &nbsp; &nbsp; </i><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I try and try, yet I cannot remember anything from that day. Hazy, unfocused images come swooshing into my face and disappear. Voices, too. I cannot make out what they say.<br /><div>Now when I think of it, I wonder if the signs were there. If, that morning, I had worn the shoe on the wrong foot, or if I had worn Rick's trousers instead of mine would I have noticed? If the clouds had hung about smiling and showered coal tar on my salt-and-pepper-hair, would I have seen it as a sign of something that would happen? Whether, Nice or unpleasant, something was about to happen?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div><div>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Rick is here. He has brought me grapes again. I have no idea why, even after fifty-two years of our marriage, he still forgets that I dislike grapes. I just cannot stand them bursting open in my mouth, the seeds grating against my teeth.</div><div>But as always, he has brought me grapes and I will say 'Rick, I don't eat grapes' and he will offer a surprised expression and say'Oh, Elena, I forgot. Well, looks like I will have to finish them off now'. This dialogue is one of the thousands of dialogues we indulge in. Through all the years of our wedded bliss, we have rehearsed and perfected the art of continuing our life of togetherness, interspersed with such simple scenes of domestic bliss. Kissing each other goodbye every morning before he is off to work. Patting down the couch before we sit in a place that has been vacated by the other. Brushing our teeth together in the bathroom. The regular taken-for-granted things we indulge in everyday. Funny, how I remember all this and yet nothing of that day.<br />Like I said, were the warning signs blinking on and off like the lights on a truck on the road?<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Are you better now dear", Rick asks me, kissing my cheek. His papery lips on my skin, a faint sour-sweet smell masked under the minty freshness of his Denari-lime-mint toothpaste, his wheezing, grinding old-man voice, his crinkled eyes - every single act, scent and taste of this man<br />I have carried within me.<br />"Much better, Rick Thank You. Will you please tell me what happened? Why am I here?" I ask.<br />He pats my shoulder as if I am a 20 year old silly giggling girl and not a seventy eight year old lady. He knows it is no use to keep things from me. He knows this much. I would pry it out of him. I would beg, cajole, threaten but in the end I would have what I wanted. Hadn't he fallen in love with me all those centuries ago for the same reason?<br />'You must rest, Elena. You must not get so worked up. It is most important that you listen to me this time, won't you, dear?'<br />'No Rick, you know I would not let you in peace. Please tell me why I am here on this, oh, vile dreadful-smelling bed when the whole of London is out celebrating the new year! Hooked onto all these wires, and I am sure looking like a witch for all I care. The nurses won't let me have a mirror. Oh Rick, Do I have cancer or something dreadful? Is there a mole growing out of my nose with a hair growing out of it? Answer me Rick!"<br />He smiles and shakes his head slowly from side to side. This is the sign I have been waiting for. The sign I know, my husband makes, just before he gives in to me. That is what marriage gifts you. The ability to read every step, every gesture, every word that your spouse will take, make and utter.<br />I wait. Looking at him with beseeching eyes.<br />"Do I have a mole growing on my nose, with a hair jutting out? Oh, I would die, if that were the case. Rick, I wish I could feel my face, but the nurses have obviously given me too much&nbsp;anaesthesia. We must complain. Why? I have never heard of a place where the patient does not feel anything for a week. A weeeeek! Rick! A weeeek! You could stick a cactus on my face, or a snake on my head and these hands would go over them and not feel a thing. Damn this place"<br />He looks at me for a long time.<br />He wipes away a tear from his eye.<br />I have seen the tear but I pretend not to notice it. That is how it has been with me. If I ignore it, the problem is not there.<br />Rick has always been the emotional one. A stray mongrel would bring out tears from his eyes faster than you could say 'Cry'! That is what I love about him. We have come such a long way. Growing old with him has been the most beautiful part of my life. I know for certain, that we would never leave the other alone even in death. Were Rick to die first, I would simply follow him. Or vice versa.<br />"Please Rick"....Now I pout my lips like I used to do when we were new lovers, ripe with passion and life and love and vitality. Those times seem so many ages ago.<br />He looks for something in his coat pocket. Then in the other. Now he has his hands in the inside pockets.<br />"Tut-tut" I say, impatiently.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"How are my love-birds doing?" A cheery voice shouts out from the door. The doctor is here. I like him. He is a thorough gentleman. A honest chap. He walks over to me, looks at the whirring-bleeping-machines next to my head, pats my cheek and says 'You will be beautiful in no time!"....<br />I blink.<br />He blinks too. And realizes his mistake.<br />"Er...I mean, Elena, you will be walking and pottering around the house in no time"<br />But it is too late.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"></div><span style="background-color: transparent;">"Elena.....Elenie...."Rick pats my shoulder again.</span><br />I brush his hand off.<br />He knows.<br />I pull off the wires. The machines scream. It is like a million ambulance alarms going off at the same time. The doctor catches my arm. I will not stop. I am determined to find out the truth behind this charade. I push open the bathroom door.<br />I stretch on my toes and look into the mirror.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />***<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The watch was just what Rick would have liked. It was an old-timer pocket model with a gold link-chain hanging from it. I had been looking for days now. To get the perfect gift for him this season. It is one of those inexplicable whims old people give way to. A sudden notion that we could vanish from the face of this earth as simply and as instantly as an ant is crushed beneath out feet. Before the Grim Reaper came for us, we would make the most of what we had. Time would slip away like sand through our fingers and one day we would be lying in a hole in the ground with regrets heaped all around. I did not want to go like that. Not me, no sire.</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I had planned to blow some money on Rick that day. I walked into Piurottes's with a steely determination and poked around until I had found it. I had just the right watch, the right gift. Perfect for Christmas.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In front of me were a bunch of boys, the new age kinds, smelling of whisky and expensive perfume. The Beverly-hill types with outrageously rich parents who gave them the license to run wild. What kind of parenting skills were in vogue nowadays, I frowned in disgust. Back in my days, a slap would be just what kids like these needed. Throwing their cash around without putting in any effort to earn it. I waited for them to scoop up their expensive gift-wrapped items and holler and shout their way out of the store.<br /><span style="background-color: transparent;">I opened my purse to pay the pretty cashier with the sing-song voice. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">"That will be three thousand three hundred and ninety pounds, madam. Thank You." she had announced.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I handed over the cash to her, and drummed my fingers over the glasstop while she counted it out. By the time the machine had printed out the bill receipt, the watch was gift-wrapped and ready for Rick.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2019860219"><img height="183" src="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4065/4645157791_1e18317e5f.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I pottered out in my excitement and had just started to cross the road when a voice hollered behind me "Mrs. Smiiiith!!! Mrs. Smiiiiith, you forgot your wallet"......In the two minutes that it took me to turn around on my unsteady arthiritic legs and reach the curb, I was&nbsp;subconsciously aware of a whirring sound, the screeching of brakes, the shouting of boys, the horrified looks of passers-by and the doorman's expression of horror.</span> <br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: left;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="text-align: left;">photo credits :&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5245/5259932275_4a6c289ee2.jpg" style="background-color: transparent;">http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5245/5259932275_4a6c289ee2.jpg</a>,&nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">photo credits:&nbsp;</span><a href="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4065/4645157791_1e18317e5f.jpg" style="background-color: transparent;">http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4065/4645157791_1e18317e5f.jpg</a></span></div></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/vGK_Ic9bCg8" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com6http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/07/two-minutes.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-79362264308653572792012-06-22T16:01:00.001+08:002012-07-18T22:40:02.272+08:00Vidaai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There is a lump in my throat and a black hole in my heart.<br />Both I have conjured for this moment.<br />You are leaving and I am glad.<br />Yet, you do not know<br />That I am going to be dancing with joy<br />Once you step out of that door.<br />So here I bid you farewell and send you off with mutterings of 'May God keep you happy'.<br />For everyone's entertainment we hug, kiss and shed tears.<br />Though the tears are Genuine, this is an Act we have put on.<br />For you too are Happy to leave.<br />I see to it that all the stuff you will carry with yourself is sent ahead of you.<br />Thence when you arrive at their place,<br />you will enter with your head held high and chest puffed out.<br /><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Proudly with eyes brimming with tears of joy,</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">your mother-in-law will display you too</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">next to the </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">artifacts from the immense dowry I have sent with you.</div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/QQBldx62CX0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com0http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/06/vidaai.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-14743803019902851152012-06-21T10:52:00.009+08:002012-07-12T21:51:31.388+08:00For my brother.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B1pGbyyKQVU/T-KQYBjJE1I/AAAAAAAAGMY/ZklDJ4W1OXM/s1600/sandeep.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5756322016140006226" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B1pGbyyKQVU/T-KQYBjJE1I/AAAAAAAAGMY/ZklDJ4W1OXM/s320/sandeep.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times I carried u in my arms singing stupid make-up-your-words-as-you-sing-along-lullabies until you wriggled out,</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;">For all the times you caught frogs and I pleaded with you to set them free,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we traded a thousand insults with each other, as we did bites and scratches and kicks and screams, until Mum spanked us both;</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;">For all the times you tagged along with my gang, and I with yours until we grew up and wanted our own space,&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we woke up Mum from her afternoon nap playing Housie and Superman under the TV table,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;">For all the times you broke all the beds in the house pretending to be a grenade-launching-army-commander-attacking-pakistan,</span><br /><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we conversed in our secret-sibling-language and laughed and laughed until our tears flowed,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we acted silly, gesturing, mimicking and generally fooling around,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we snitched on the other to Mum and Dad,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we sang out loud 'Haiyya-Haiyya-Ho' in trains,</span></div><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times you scratched my back and I yours,</span><br /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times you puffed out your chest and tried to look menacing to the Romeos down the road,</span><br /><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we finished each other's food,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we hid our favourite books from each other, </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we made secret pacts and bribed each other to ask for gifts from our parents for the other,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times we did a million different things together and not together and bickered and loved and slapped and kissed,</span></div><div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">For all the times I will remember until my heart is ready to burst with pride and admiration and pure love for you - Here is a Happy Birthday Wish. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 15.454545021057129px;">For&nbsp;</span></span><a href="http://sandyspeak.blogspot.sg/" style="background-color: white;">http://sandyspeak.blogspot.com/</a></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/5TixLf2udW4" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com4http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/06/for-my-brother.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-82309540539490025682012-05-23T19:22:00.003+08:002012-05-24T12:44:31.287+08:00The last of the Embers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">This Flesh</span><br /><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">that</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">you,&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">O Novice,</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">just Seared</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">was already</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">burning</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">from last night's horror.</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pray tell, what you shall do</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">tomorrow,&nbsp;</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">when I am but</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a handful of ash?</span></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/-lk72p4AHBI" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com8http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/05/last-of-embers.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-82197613951834107482012-05-22T11:56:00.015+08:002012-11-30T14:48:25.650+08:0011 reasons why I will never be invited to the Satyamev Jayate Show as 'audience'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Why would Aamir Khan be unhappy, even scared to have ME on the show?<br /><div><br /></div><div>1) I would probably scowl and make loud 'tch-tch' noises every time he makes those bug-eyes and says 'Acchha' WHILE the guest tells him his/her dukhbhari story. Sorry, but uske saath jo hua hain, uske liye 'Achhha' seems so out-of-place!<br /><br />2) I would probably shout across the hall 'aap iski jagah hote to...?' every time he asks the guest 'aap ko kaise laga jab a) Aapke pati aapko chhod kar chale gaye? b) Aapke bachhe ko maar dala c) Aapke sasural waalon ne aap ke upar acid chhidka? d) Aap ne suicide kiya?'<br /><br />3) I would probably pinch my nose shut every time he puffs his cheeks and blows out air when he actually wants to sigh.<br /><br />4) I would probably hand out my Kara wet Tissues (Aloe-Vera) everytime he pokes his own eye to squeeze out the tears hiding at the corner. <br /><br />5) I would probably sneer and snort loudly every time the audience says 'Kya, educated log yeh sab karte hain?'<br /><br />6) I would probably stand up and ask 'Aamir - all this is fine, but please can you ask the villain also to come and present his views? The father who made his wife abort a daughter and is now regretting it and has adopted two girl-children? Or the husband who stood up against his parents and said he would marry only if they agreed to a no-dowry marriage?'<br /><br />7) I would probably stomp my feet in frustration and demand why the faces of the dowry-demanding husband or the abortion-karne-ke-liye-force-karnewale-in-laws are blurred?<br /><br />8) I would probably, unwittingly tell him that on my FB page and on my blog, I have made some cynical, critical comments of Satyamev Jayate and his 'acting'.<br /><br />9) I would probably wait till the part where he says 'send SMS and cheques to raise money' and demand of him 'Why can't u donate 3 rs from ur 3 crore rs fees, instead of asking us to do it? U are one of the best actors in the industry, u and ur wife have always genuinely helped out with social-awareness programmes, then why not donate some money here?'</div><div><br />10) I would probably jump up and ask 'Have u written that letter to the Rajasthan CM?'<br /><br />11) And when the producers call the security guards and order them to bundle me out of the hall, I would probably shout and say 'I have always admired u Aamir, but don't know why, it feels like U are acting here too!'<br /><br />And then all the people who 'found out' in the month of May 2012, that we have 'female foeticide', 'Child abuse', 'dowry-traditions' going on in our country, will probably understand what I am trying to say and rescue me.</div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/QwCObqcG2nA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com8http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/05/6-reasons-why-i-will-never-be-invited.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-81201335497708214132012-05-13T01:17:00.011+08:002012-07-12T21:52:29.216+08:00My conversations with Siri :/<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So there I was, absolutely bored and thinking of a way to kill time, when I thought of Siri. Actually I sat on the phone and the 'round' button got pressed activating her. It is a little frustrating because she is a female in this country so I really cannot compare her responses to a male Siri, but it was fun while it lasted.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here are some screenshots from my phone!&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Please note these are actual questions asked by me :/</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tUpoBP2o1oU/T7CRup8aZtI/AAAAAAAAFz4/Guxtxy7kpJg/s1600/1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tUpoBP2o1oU/T7CRup8aZtI/AAAAAAAAFz4/Guxtxy7kpJg/s320/1.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7E36xL-sHTc/T7CRzLRlPLI/AAAAAAAAF0A/ffFg6Nl2ve0/s1600/10.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7E36xL-sHTc/T7CRzLRlPLI/AAAAAAAAF0A/ffFg6Nl2ve0/s320/10.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yepxzM2MsBc/T7CR666KnwI/AAAAAAAAF0Q/7DViHJCTsO0/s1600/12.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yepxzM2MsBc/T7CR666KnwI/AAAAAAAAF0Q/7DViHJCTsO0/s320/12.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8zbosXYUkGs/T7CR-rwoPUI/AAAAAAAAF0Y/450UTJLwEHQ/s1600/13.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8zbosXYUkGs/T7CR-rwoPUI/AAAAAAAAF0Y/450UTJLwEHQ/s320/13.PNG" width="213" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-07hrTMEIeDE/T7CSFJ8Mx6I/AAAAAAAAF0g/AHh09XX4Gow/s1600/14.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-07hrTMEIeDE/T7CSFJ8Mx6I/AAAAAAAAF0g/AHh09XX4Gow/s320/14.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OYpn5v9UDaU/T7CSI5fskYI/AAAAAAAAF0o/c3VuPiojuMQ/s1600/15.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OYpn5v9UDaU/T7CSI5fskYI/AAAAAAAAF0o/c3VuPiojuMQ/s320/15.PNG" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IHrzVxzIB3o/T7CSNNgfVnI/AAAAAAAAF0w/RVBFkYm80h8/s1600/16.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IHrzVxzIB3o/T7CSNNgfVnI/AAAAAAAAF0w/RVBFkYm80h8/s320/16.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m64HxHkkDSI/T7CSRNi9lnI/AAAAAAAAF04/1QoUnhp9lp8/s1600/17.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m64HxHkkDSI/T7CSRNi9lnI/AAAAAAAAF04/1QoUnhp9lp8/s320/17.PNG" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OeCjee6fqeo/T7CSVMUiPtI/AAAAAAAAF1A/bTXN8HBLu1A/s1600/17a.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OeCjee6fqeo/T7CSVMUiPtI/AAAAAAAAF1A/bTXN8HBLu1A/s320/17a.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6CJx5D6-2uY/T7CSZZD0K5I/AAAAAAAAF1I/OhURALkrrRg/s1600/17b.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6CJx5D6-2uY/T7CSZZD0K5I/AAAAAAAAF1I/OhURALkrrRg/s320/17b.PNG" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_rlBoPj3G1M/T7CSdGYx6UI/AAAAAAAAF1Q/HTua1Zqnimw/s1600/2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_rlBoPj3G1M/T7CSdGYx6UI/AAAAAAAAF1Q/HTua1Zqnimw/s320/2.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0F7fOOhZUeU/T7CSlHkMwBI/AAAAAAAAF1g/jlO8Tr3Wtxs/s1600/4.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0F7fOOhZUeU/T7CSlHkMwBI/AAAAAAAAF1g/jlO8Tr3Wtxs/s320/4.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4GGy2Y0B0pY/T7CSo91H5WI/AAAAAAAAF1o/QezxuYLN_Vc/s1600/5.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4GGy2Y0B0pY/T7CSo91H5WI/AAAAAAAAF1o/QezxuYLN_Vc/s320/5.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LdM6tHfq0vQ/T7CStAT263I/AAAAAAAAF1w/4ScylsBofOc/s1600/6.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LdM6tHfq0vQ/T7CStAT263I/AAAAAAAAF1w/4ScylsBofOc/s320/6.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d3JHE0dn9fw/T7CSxHqxlRI/AAAAAAAAF14/SrgkvthNTeQ/s1600/7.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d3JHE0dn9fw/T7CSxHqxlRI/AAAAAAAAF14/SrgkvthNTeQ/s320/7.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oSoZ2LI65Ug/T7CS0gVHJCI/AAAAAAAAF2A/5buJunraiGs/s1600/8.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oSoZ2LI65Ug/T7CS0gVHJCI/AAAAAAAAF2A/5buJunraiGs/s320/8.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rJ2GZbfiv5c/T7CS4S-5sTI/AAAAAAAAF2I/UK52m4awHgw/s1600/9.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rJ2GZbfiv5c/T7CS4S-5sTI/AAAAAAAAF2I/UK52m4awHgw/s320/9.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xbj1lGV43uQ/T7CTX1sNkjI/AAAAAAAAF2Q/cjog4yqPcpg/s1600/IMG_0447.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xbj1lGV43uQ/T7CTX1sNkjI/AAAAAAAAF2Q/cjog4yqPcpg/s320/IMG_0447.PNG" width="212" /></a>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KakTcRTRA04/T7CkjOXvleI/AAAAAAAAF2c/DMg3GWQQMt0/s1600/IMG_0448%255B1%255D.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KakTcRTRA04/T7CkjOXvleI/AAAAAAAAF2c/DMg3GWQQMt0/s320/IMG_0448%255B1%255D.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fAsch8J5rsc/T7CnWV8Y_SI/AAAAAAAAF3M/19e_vzxW20U/s1600/IMG_0446.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fAsch8J5rsc/T7CnWV8Y_SI/AAAAAAAAF3M/19e_vzxW20U/s320/IMG_0446.PNG" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CEX53pU7HFg/T7CnaD10hKI/AAAAAAAAF3U/gThlrqnXjTQ/s1600/IMG_0449.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CEX53pU7HFg/T7CnaD10hKI/AAAAAAAAF3U/gThlrqnXjTQ/s320/IMG_0449.PNG" width="213" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OxCVU8YgM8E/T7Cn_Erao-I/AAAAAAAAF3c/41R5_Tnd4-Y/s1600/IMG_0450.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OxCVU8YgM8E/T7Cn_Erao-I/AAAAAAAAF3c/41R5_Tnd4-Y/s320/IMG_0450.PNG" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/KueUjIs6ahg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com4http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/05/my-conversations-with-siri.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-19851851300626782072012-05-11T10:56:00.008+08:002012-07-13T09:58:17.101+08:00Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara (2011) - Hindi - movie review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(This movie review was written by me last year, but since I had this sudden burst of idea that once my blog was on the public search lists, I must put up the reviews too, I have copied it out here. My FB account is more or less like a blog with all sorts of debates, criticisms, discussions storming it, so it just makes sense for me to paste from there)</span></i><br /><br />Director : Zoya Akhtar</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Main cast - Hrithik Roshan, Abhay Deol, Farhan Akhtar</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>We did think it was apt to watch this movie today. After all wasn't it about friendship? But I came away with mixed reactions. And I won't mince words now.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KEpJ7kHHM0E/T9Bgr1R7tRI/AAAAAAAAGAg/vYdgtNBNe5U/s1600/images+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KEpJ7kHHM0E/T9Bgr1R7tRI/AAAAAAAAGAg/vYdgtNBNe5U/s1600/images+(1).jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />Firstly on the conversation part it seemed like one of the impromptu road trips (local ones) that I take with select friends in my own way. <br />Secondly it was too long. I mean how long can you stretch perfectly normal connverstaions between 3 friends? <br />However, and this is a big However, absolute paisa vasool since u now don't need to go to Spain. Though they did not cover the beach at Barcelona.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Or did they? Sorry, I was too busy watching Kat....</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She looks DIVINE and absolutely kissable and thank God they paired Hrithik opposite her.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pLYPec_us5U/T9BeRzfYILI/AAAAAAAAGAY/OixgcbGYEDM/s1600/images+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pLYPec_us5U/T9BeRzfYILI/AAAAAAAAGAY/OixgcbGYEDM/s1600/images+(2).jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(<i>And yes they knew she was absolutely kissable, so they did manage to fit a 2 sec lip-lock scene in</i>). But the director kind of treated Kat n the other Spanish gal, like some use-n-throw pens, which I did not like much, maybe they were there just to up the glam quotient.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There is an Unnecessary scene of Farhan n the Spanish gal in bed, since he is shown having the hots for Kat (who should take diction classes from Sonia Gandhi). <br />An un-needed angle of Naseerudiin, they could have made it intellectual if they had shown Farhan doing it over the phone (the conversation with his father, I mean). <br />But But But if u did take away these, then what would be there in the movie? Nothing except it would have looked like u were watching NatGeo, Animal Planet, TLC and Discovery all at once.<br />And yet, I loved the fact that a Bollywood movie was so classy, so classy in its treatment of the Smooch. <br />And is there or isn't there a foreign hand in the way they captured the Underwater World? If there isn't, kudos to the guys behind it. <br />Watch it for the adrenaline-filled, heart-in-your-mouth filming of the Sky-diving, Tomatina and the Bull Fight scenes. All the 3 have been in my Things-to-Do-Before-I-Die list since schooldays, but now I'm absolutely panicking. <br />And yes the fun banter between the 3, especially their antics is cute n funny. Watch it also for the fact that Hrithik, whom I usually do not prefer either in the face or the body dept., looks like a Greek God. <br />While, paling in comparision, Abhay looks and talks a little 'girlish', but his dimples will make sure u don't notice it.<br />Farhan is cute throughout, except when he is crying.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In fact, there is no acting skill required here because the whole gang is just doing what it does everyday - hanging out with each other, verbal parries, witty remarks, fun-banters.<br />Overall a film commendable, watchable, clean and cute. You might feel just a little bored, especially some time after the interval, but the Bulls will bring back the smileys.&nbsp;</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H52Ubb9t4UQ/T9Bg5lDIYQI/AAAAAAAAGAw/jwfDxfAYL94/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H52Ubb9t4UQ/T9Bg5lDIYQI/AAAAAAAAGAw/jwfDxfAYL94/s1600/images.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />Though not exactly close to Dil Chahta hain or 3 Idiots, ZNMD is a film U must watch, atleast once, for that 'goodie-goodie' feeling.</span></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/Ot4kgYNYDrM" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com1http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/05/zindagi-na-milegi-dobara-review-by.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-52156167463541134142012-05-10T16:06:00.006+08:002012-07-18T23:24:52.403+08:00Aamir's Satyamev Jayate - FB ranting.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><a href="http://www.buzzom.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Satyameva_Jayate1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.buzzom.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Satyameva_Jayate1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was quite surprised when , on logging into FB on Sunday evening, I saw quite a few updates from people (who have never bothered to ever comment on anything of importance) looking like this -</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"STOP FEMALE FOETICIDE!!" and "SAVE OUR GIRL-BABIES!!!" "WATCH SATYAMEV JAYATE - SUPPORT AAMIR KHAN"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I was aware of the show, but did not see it on TV because we are not subscribed to the Hindi channels here. Anyways, but looking at these reactions, I assumed the show was worth something, and watched the&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1vASMbEEQc&amp;feature=player_embedded" target="_blank">episode</a>&nbsp;on YouTube.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;20 minutes into the episode and the cynic in me came to the surface. It looked very very much like 'acting' - Aamir's tears, preachings, expressions, sighs, gasps - looked completely unreal. Atleast while grieving women were narrating their painful experiences, he could have, atleast here, been himself.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Anyways Satyamev Jayate was talking about an evil that has leeched itself onto the socio-economic flesh of our country, and there is no letting go. However I am not going to delve into the figures and the data and the whole huge discussion about female foeticide.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Also, the show kind of heaped all the accusation on the in-laws and the husbands. I expected to hear what the latter had to say - Why they think a 'daughter' is a burden and should be 'done away' with. Sometimes, it is also the mothers who do not want a girl-child being born to them. Albeit, I assume these cases will be few, I hope so, Satyamev Jayate should have brought in that angle too.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The whole issue is why did people start noticing ‘the abominable crime of female foeticide’ only when Aamir came on TV? Hasn’t it been practised in front of our eyes for years? Haven’t all of us heard atleast one instance about this? This is like a downright insult to every activist out there who has been working to stop ‘female foeticide’ for ages and running pillar-to-post trying to educate masses. And yet, atleast Aamir did this, instead of choosing to be some judge or seller of condoms in some retarded reality show or commercial. I was surprised that there was no talk about any of the money being diverted to help these cases? But why should I be? Since when has Bollywood ever bothered much about the ‘ills in the society’?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Now that he is earning 3crore per episode (??!!), he has usurped Amitabh and the others. Success, finally. So in the end, I’m glad that ‘people’ started ‘FBing’ and ‘Twittering’ just because they cleaned their ears on Sunday evening and heard Aamir on TV!</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In the end, while he unashamedly requested his country men to donate money, never once did he say that he would contribute 2 rupees from his own personal fund. What a shame! Oh but I forgot, he is supposed to be making money, just like any other Bollywood star. Funny, this coming from me, because I LOVE Aamir Khan for his integrity, his movies and his not being 'common'. Unfortunately, this image is starting to crumble.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;All I’m scared of is that now Aamir will be the beacon of a ‘do-good-er’.Like my brother said</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Aamir Khan would scoop up dirt off the ground with a spoon and eat it and people will be applauding it as an original display of spatial coordination. He is out to make money, and more pertinently, upstage Amitabh on TV since only Aamir is left out in that medium and everyone is reacting as if female foeticide is a story broken by him.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I remember when months ago, I had talked about ‘female foeticide’ on my FB status, I mustered about 2-3 likes and 2 weak comments by friends. Oh, and some comment about whether I hoped to be the next freedom-fighter of India. Or something on those lines. Again, just because I criticised the show, people said (more like, 'FB-ed') that atleast he was doing something instead of just updating my FB and my Blog pages! And to think that while they were leading their mundane boring lives, waiting for their next salary day, their next party, their next gift, their next holiday, I was getting my hands and knees dirty working at animal-rescue shelters, orphanages and the 'teach India' campaign. Surely I have 1% more right than them to discuss about social problems then, if you insist on a barometer for measuring my karma? Well, glad that these people have woken up just because a grotesquely huge amount of money was traded, labelled ‘Social Issues’ and served with a sprinkling of Bollywood and a soaking of Tears.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I hope we see some solutions to the ‘cases’ discussed here. Some ‘real solutions’. Not the nonsense like the Madhya Pradesh Govt rounding up doctors. Which I am sure, is just an ‘instant maggi-2-min-noodles' reaction to the show. I hope we see ‘people’ (made up of You and Me) not stopping at making noise and Status messages, and instead really doing something, anything about the problems faced by India. Did I just hear u sneer and ask me what ‘I’ am going to do? Since I am a nobody, and since no one is paying me 3 crores to ‘act’ for 60 minutes, I will continue doing my small ‘efforts’ and leave you to either ‘think’ or ‘act’…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Anyway no one is going to invite me to meet Aamir on the SJ set. Why? Because of the reasons mentioned <a href="http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.sg/2012/05/6-reasons-why-i-will-never-be-invited.html" target="_blank">here</a>!!!</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At the end of it all, I really hope 'Satyamev' really 'Jayate'.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Meanwhile this is what was happening on my FB home page…..<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=520925392"><span style="color: blue;">ME</span></a>&nbsp;</b>Amused at the huge web-crashing reactions Satyamev Jayate is garnering. Though the cynic in me wonders why everyone is reacting as if Female foeticide is a new thing. Hasn't it been going on under our very noses for centuries? Also all those Crores of rupees being pumped into the show and out, makes me cringe. But at least I am glad Aamir, in return for his 3 crores, for every episode (?!?!) is talking abt some social issue instead of choosing to become a judge in those stupid reality shows where all u have to do is say 'mind blowing' and crack cheap jokes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">19 hrs ago. 7 like this. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>SB -</b>&nbsp;Like we needed a showoff perfectionist actor to show us how female kids are killed. This has been advocated in talk shows and articles as long as I can remember!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">18 hrs ago&nbsp;· Unlike 1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>SB -</b>&nbsp;If he wanted to make any difference socially, he would do this show free of charge!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">18 hrs ago&nbsp;·&nbsp;Unlike 2</span></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>ME -</b>&nbsp;‎@SB - Absolutely. Therefore the first 3 minutes or 5 minutes where he gives that bullshit about 'feeling for people', sorry, does not go down my throat. If he really felt so strongly about it, he would do it for free or atleast divert a large amount to helping such women.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">17 hrs ago&nbsp;·&nbsp;Like</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>GS -</b>&nbsp;i think its not the cause they are happy to see our own oprah winfry in a male form :P<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">17 hrs ago&nbsp;·&nbsp;Unlike 1</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">RH -</b><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;Shilpa, its not about knowing. Its about supporting someone who thought of bringing in a change. What happens, nobody knows. People are intolerant these days. Whole nation stood up for Hazare ( I will refrain my opinion about him ;) ) , then why not this team. Everyone of us wants change but none of us will be the change. So I think the team is doing a good job. Atleast trying to. We have to just hope that they do bring in the change :)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">16 hrs ago</span><span style="color: #660000;">&nbsp;.&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #660000;">Unlike 2</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>RH -</b>&nbsp;I have to agree with Sabeena though :)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">16 hrs ago&nbsp;·&nbsp;Like</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ME -</b><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp;‎@RH - Yes, even if it took 5 minutes of Aamir Khan to stir them ;P</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">5 hrs ago&nbsp;·&nbsp;Like</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>ME -</b>&nbsp;To all - I'm so happy that while SRK and AB are selling chaddi-baniyan-condoms-gutkha, this one atleast pimped himself for a social issue.....But I just hope people realize and accept that 'AAMIR DID NOT UNCOVER THE CRIME OF FEMALE FOETICIDE ON 6TH MAY 2012'........<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">5 hrs ago</span><span style="color: #660000;">&nbsp;.&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #660000;">Unlike 2</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>UM -</b>&nbsp;He has highlighted an instance which a heightened one. And took his star power to make people realise that its high time to do something about it,.. its amazing how people find ways to make money, AAMIR did well,.. &amp; ya v r glad that atleast this reality show can give some positive to soceity,.. others just suck us emotionally to make money..!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="color: #660000;">2 hrs ago</span><span style="color: #660000;">&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #660000;">&nbsp;· Unlike. 1</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br /></span></span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>VN -</b>&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span><span style="background-color: #d0e0e3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">shilpa madam, i dont agree with you at all, he has done very good job, if you have seen whole episode, he has also given solution and lastly he has given letter to rajasthan cm to act on sting operation created by some social activist...lots of thing were eye opening like most of this abortion is done by educated family, not by poor people...hat's off to aamir khan for his afforts...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="color: #660000;">17 hrs ago</span><span style="color: #660000;">&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #660000;">&nbsp;· Like</span></span></span></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/bGybktN_zSM" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com0http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/05/aamirs-satyamev-jayate-fb-ranting.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-14344318401515160462012-04-25T14:29:00.003+08:002012-06-25T15:32:43.900+08:00Delayed Reaction to an Incident in a Mallu Hotel in Bangalore.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;No idea why some Non-Mallus come into a Kerala restaurant and say 'Arrey u make this in coconut oil? I dont want it.' If I was the hotel owner I would add Pig-shit to their stupid order of 'Bhaiyya, normal aloo paratha bana do, groundnut oil mein.' and serve it to them with a fart. I dont go to a Punjabi hotel and say 'Shit, sarso ka tel...chhheee!'....or to a Kannada hotel and say 'Chhhee, raagi mudde tastes like mud.' or to a Gujarati restaurant and say 'Oh God, they put sugar in everything!'<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I am not partial to any cuisine. If I am in Tamil Nadu, I want to eat Tamil food. Same with Maharashtra or Bengal or Rajasthan.&nbsp;Right now I am in Singapore and we love&nbsp;savouring&nbsp;the local cuisine. We do not like all dishes, but everytime that we are out, we order a new dish. If we&nbsp;don't&nbsp;like it, we remember the name so as not to order it next time. We dont sit and crib and tell Singaporeans to stop making local food and serve us with food from our Indian kitchens. Simple.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Did they go to sleep at night and on waking up in the morning, discover themselves in Kerala? Probably they were illiterate to not have read anything. Kerala is known as the land of coconuts and spices and bananas for no other reason than this. That these products grow in plenty here. Obviously when people settled here, they made use of the natural bounty. U&nbsp;don't&nbsp;need Darwin to tell u that unless u are living proof that he was wrong about his evolution theory. Coconut oil is used for cooking. Coconut oil is used on the hair. But obviously Keralites are not retarded enough to use the same bottle for both. If u&nbsp;don't&nbsp;like the fact that coconut oil is used for cooking, please travel with ur own gunny sacks of whatever oil u are using.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Again yes, Kerala rice is different. The grains are big but softer than boiled rice. We don't need to polish the grains as long as they look like rice. But THIS DOES NOT MEAN that we cannot grow basmati rice on Kerala soil. The land obviously is one of the most fertile in India. We can grow live babies too!<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Also yes the Sea is generous to us. We eat seafood. A LOT. But it does not mean that EVERY family eats fish morning, noon and night.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Neither does the fact that people drink Toddy, mean every man living here drinks Toddy.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Again we use banana and mangoes and tapioca and jackfruit a lot - in our curries, in our kheers, in chips. But we&nbsp;don't&nbsp;eat only these four things. Kerala is blessed with a lot of vegetable and fruits most of which grow in our backyards.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And yes again, we wear white. For the simple reason that it is so tropical and humid that we cannot go around in gaudy gold embroidered red synthetic dresses and do our work at the same time. The men wear 'mundus' NOT 'lungis'. There is a vast difference between both. It is the same for Tamilians. They also wear 'mundus' not 'lungis'. And they have an angavastram on their shoulders. Reading forwards and joking is all right. but laughing in their faces because they do not wear stuffy jeans like u is another matter altogether and I am always surprised why one of the natives does not just punch u in the face.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;For some reason I am unable to fathom, most foreigners are so much more open and interested in Indian culture and cuisine while thay are on vacation in India.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The Retards above are not only limited to ordering food. They travel to places outside India and crib 'Arrey, there is no home-made paneer available. Arrey tamatar mein Indiawala taste nahi hain. Arrey these people eat only bread. Arrey this. Arrey that.' I mean yes it is a little uncomfortable to to be uprooted and we do want our old clingy comforts around us, but still. How can someone travel to a new place and NOT be interested in learning about the history, the customs, the cuisine, the local people? How can someone want to sit in the comfort of their house and say 'No I do not want to know anything about this new place I am in!'?<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;To someone like me, That is pukish.</span></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/NLmWZKDZC9o" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com2http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/04/delayed-reaction-to-incident-in-mallu.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-60816503927665965492012-04-09T16:31:00.002+08:002012-05-11T10:04:49.694+08:00Look not See. Listen not Hear.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hide my grief</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">behind</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">sarcastic FB updates</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">make all of you</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">laugh</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">with my self-deprecating humor.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You come running</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to me</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">when you are sad</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">asking me to cheer you up.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You invite me to all your parties</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">because</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm the life of any party</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">you say.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You 'like' all my</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">statuses</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">photos</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">notes</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and say you miss being with a</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">nut</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">like me.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not even once did you ask</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">'What is wrong' all those times</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my throaty laughs</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ended midway.</span></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/5q4Y_Ib84GU" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com5http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-hide-my-grief-behind-sarcastic-fb.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-8557076517893217862012-04-01T14:45:00.020+08:002012-06-07T15:38:10.128+08:00That Last Night.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;">This post has been published by me as a part of the <b>Blog-a-Ton 26</b>; the 26th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following <a href="http://blogaton.in/"><b>Blog-a-Ton</b></a>. The topic for this month is 'That Last Night'.</span></blockquote></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_jKvsNJTH4Sk/TEL_CDJj9oI/AAAAAAAACRQ/7I7rWItjmgk/batom_award_2_small.jpg" /> </div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">S</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">aturday – 15th June 2013.</span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The last memory she had of him was him chomping her breasts. She flinched. Then turned and looked at the body beside her. His snoring had always turned her stomach upside down, not to mention ruin her sleep. He was drooling in his sleep. Now the damned bed sheets would stink at that particular spot. It brought up a wave of nausea and she almost gagged. She was sick of him to death.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The unpleasant part was that it had nothing to do with the drool. She was sick enough to want to smother him with the pillow. But he was strong. It would never have worked. Unless she pretended that they were playing one of his kinky sex games and she would have to tie up his feet and hands to the bedpost. No, no. It would be all too easy for the police. What with the marks on the ankles and wrists, and the forced suffocation, they would unravel her so easily.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">'There has to be some way to end this'.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;That night was the last one she wanted to spend together with him. That night was the last one she wanted him to touch her. But she would have more such nights. She knew. She knew that, that last night would be the beginning. She sighed. And tried to go back to sleep. But instead, the tears came. First as sniffles, then sobs. Little racking sobs which she shovelled into her pillow. Shovelled into, burrowed into, along with the snot and the grief. He must not wake up. She did not want to speak to him. Not now. For just some more time she wanted to be alone. She flung aside the sheets and rummaged for her slippers.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saturday – 22nd June 2013.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Groggily he called for her. His brain had just started to tune in to the sounds and smells of a Saturday morning. The coffee grinder whirring. The toaster tick-tocking. The juicer spitting out the seeds and rind. The weekend was here. A smile played on his lips. Wasn’t she just going to be surprised today! He had planned an impromptu dinner at The Regency tonight. He would tell her to wear the Mauve dress. Maybe with the brooch he had gifted her last week. And he would lead her by the arm and everyone would wonder how he could be so lucky so as to possess such a beautiful woman. His little own trophy wife. His little dirty mistress.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Stifling a yawn, his eyes wandered to the framed photographs on the side table. And the portraits littering the wall. Regret clouded his mind. And guilt. And shame. He had been too rough with her that night. It was not that he wanted to. But when he saw her naked, the rage claimed him. Gnawed at him until all he wanted to do was to leave his mark on her. Disfigure her. Brand her a whore and parade her around. But he loved her so much. It was all because he loved her so much. He knew it. And she did too. That he would never be able to stop loving her. Her whimpers excited him and her screams filled his mind with fantasies for days together.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He called for her again. “Darling, I am awake.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There, he could hear her faint answer from the kitchen at the back of the house. Not clear enough for his sleep-muddled ears to catch perfectly, but enough for him to know that she was coming to him. A rustle. A movement behind the curtains and she appeared. Freshly scrubbed. Smelling of lavender and soap. The serving tray in her hands.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Here is your coffee.” She said through gritted teeth.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What was it about her that made him look up at her, warily?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I have something to tell u”.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘Not a baby. Lord. Not now.’ He prayed inwardly. He detested the little monsters. Whimpering, pesky little maggots. He had no time and no inclination to subject his house to their attacks.,</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What is it?” He flicked his tongue over his lips. And she would remember many a day later that he looked like a lizard eyeing its prey.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I do not want to stay with you. Now now. Not ever.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He flung the coffee at her. It soaked her silk robe. Burnt her skin.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What the fuck did you say?”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I said I cannot live with you.”</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bellbajao.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/pd_domestic_violence_080207_ms-300x225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://bellbajao.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/pd_domestic_violence_080207_ms-300x225.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He punched her in the face. Her nose bled. She clawed him. Across his cheek, she drew her nails.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He was screaming. Incoherent. Flinging aside the tray and the sandwiches and whatever he could lay his hands on. Stamping on her face and hands. Kicking. Mouthing obscenities.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She would have to endure this. She had to cry. Now. She had to feed his anger. Make him do the exact things she was scared of. The exact things she wanted him to stop doing to her.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;For some more time. Some more days. Just a matter of some more days.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Her senses shut down. She swam out into the black salty sea.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saturday – 13th July.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He flung aside the sheets and looked around bleary-eyed. It was afternoon. Christ, he had slept all through last evening and the night and till noon! He called out her name. She did not answer. He waited and called out her name again. And again. She did not answer. He limped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. She was not there. then he made his way to the balcony. Neither there. Nor in the living room. Nowhere. She was out. He gnashed his teeth.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The bitch had not woken him up. Nor told him before leaving. He went back to the kitchen and started to make coffee.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He had just settled into his armchair when the door bell rang shrilly. He placed the coffee mug on the table. The bell rang again. And again.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“One minute. I’m on my way”. He wanted to punch the idiot in the face. Whoever it was. But of course he could not do that. He was a gentleman. At least everyone knew him as one.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He blanched when he opened the door. It was a cop. No, cops. Almost a team. And there! There stood his wife. Almost unrecognizable because she was dishevelled and dressed down. The black spot around her left eye, the remainder of last night's coupling, &nbsp;throbbed with a life of its own. Her split lip gorged red. The purple bruises on her cheeks glared at him. Where was her make-up and what the fuck was wrong with her?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I assume we can come in, without waiting for you to invite us?” The inspector tapped on his chest with his baton.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stupefied, he let them in. He let the men walk into the house. His wife started to follow them. “What is the meaning of this?” He whispered, grabbing her arm.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She looked at him. She smiled. It hurt her to smile, but she did.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Ask the camera fitted on the AC vent.” She spat at him.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He knew. She knew. And now the police knew too. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That last night had been the beginning. And the end.</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;***</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">The </span><b style="text-align: justify;">fellow Blog-a-Tonics</b><span style="text-align: justify;"> who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective </span><b style="text-align: justify;">posts</b><span style="text-align: justify;"> can be checked </span><a href="http://www.blogaton.in/2012/03/rules-and-reminder-for-blog-ton-26.html" style="text-align: justify;"><b>here</b></a><span style="text-align: justify;">. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following </span><b style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://blogaton.in/">Blog-a-Ton</a>.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div></div></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/pZJNEoljCMU" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com35http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2012/04/that-last-night.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-66421456031569802422011-10-15T13:04:00.005+08:002012-05-11T14:45:41.258+08:00Selective Amnesia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Stale. That is what the smell is. Stale. The stink of a cigarette long chewed. It is time to close my eyes and wrinkle up my nose. I want to crawl under the bed. Out of sight. But I'm scared. It is too dark and Mommie is out working.&nbsp;</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://poundpuplegacy.org/files/userimages/Image/themes/child_abuse.png" /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I heard her heels clacking on the hallway. She tries to tread softly, but even with the raggedy carpet, I could hear her.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In the basement is where I and my sister have been tucked into bed by Mommie a while ago. She works in the day too. Poor Mommie. That-woman says it is because we did not die but chose to live. I and my sister Bessie that is. And That-woman says Mommie is working to feed us and if we do not eat or do not ask for anything Mommie would not have to work so hard. So Bessie and I did not eat the whole day today. And yesterday. And the day before.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But now I have a queasy feeling in my stomach. And so I have this biscuit with me. One for me and one for Bessie when she wakes up. She smells. Of poo. And now I will have to change her nappy. But she would wake up if I tried to. So I’m just gonna let her sleep. Poor thing, she is only two.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Mommie reads out ‘Willie-rabbit’ to us everyday when she comes back from work. She hardly gets time to change before she has to go out again. But I love it when she is next to me. Bessie’s drool does not bother her. She places a kiss on the top of our heads and leaves, taking away the scent of half-wet clothes, mothballs, powder. For some time after, her fragrance lingers. As comforting as the tattered blanket we are sharing I almost smile in content.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But then the door creaks and I can hear voices. Hands carry me to the drawing room. Bessie is crying because she has been woken up too. Rough hands, and a lap. Now my nightie is yanked off and I’m shivering with the cold. The fireplace is out again. 'I will build a nice warm fireplace for Mommie, when I grow old. And I want to grow as big as I can and as fast as I can'. I talk to myself in my mind.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Soon, it is over.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Amidst a chorus of coarse laughter and merry giggles we have been retuned to the bed.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Our refuge.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Bessie is wailing. Now that-woman follows us and hits her on the head. Bessie stops crying and whimpers instead. ‘Shut your trap and don’t go about whining the way your Mother does all the time.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I let Bessie crouch in my arms.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The door shuts.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Bessie’s wispy golden hair tickles me in the nose and I sneeze.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Once.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Twice.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Thrice.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She looks up, and now a smile is forming at the corners of her mouth.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I pretend to sneeze some more.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Soon she bursts out laughing and snuggles closer to me.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Everything is forgotten for a moment.</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But for a moment.</span></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/kL4kcQq9AxU" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com1http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/10/selective-amnesia.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-39935513401942973132011-08-14T15:35:00.002+08:002012-07-12T21:54:57.440+08:00Mera Bharat Mahan - Par Mein Nahin..!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">So tomorrow is Independence Day? More than 6 decades ago, India gained freedom, a handful of wiry men in Loin-cloths, went hoarse shouting for freedom from the British. Many leaders came and vowed to make India nothing like what the Britishers had made us.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Slaves.</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;So today, everyone of us will be 'proud' to be an Indian.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will send our kids proudly off to school for a flag-hoisting ceremony without knowing why we do it - hoist the flag that is, sending them to school, we must, that would take them off our hands wouldn't it?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will make them wear little caps and paint their faces with the colors of the Tri-color.</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will buy those 10 rs wallah small flags being sold at Traffic Signals.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Then we will host a party at home - <i>Arrey zaroor aaiyega, aaj hum dinner rakh rahe hain, Chutti hain na? Chalo socializing ho jaye’</i>.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The kids will sing Jana Gana Mana with their hands glued to their foreheads like little &nbsp;</span>tin toy soldiers, without knowing how it came into existence. The teachers will sing alongwith, while inside they are actually cribbing at having had a Holiday spoilt.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Some technologically advanced schools will set up projectors and play ‘Gandhi’ or such (all the while yawning), while at home, people will watch with glee films like ‘Roja’, ‘Indian’ etc where they serve up patriotism with dhishum-dhishums.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will scold the under-age-servant and make him work harder. But no, we, the educated ones, will not ponder that child-labour is illegal. No, we will make those 10-12 year olds change the baby’s nappy, clean out commodes without a care. We are paying them after all, right?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;By the time kids come home from school, it is time to have a family-meal. Who cares about the millions in our country going hungry? My obese idiotic child’s belly is all that matters to me.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will clean our houses and throw the <i>‘kachra’</i> &nbsp;onto the roads without a care in the world.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will keep the tap open while brushing,&nbsp; enjoying the soothing lilting melody of water gushing forth, without thinking of the lakhs of people who get 15 minutes of water every 3-4 days. Aren’t we the posh ones? The ones with status, money?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Oh it is evening, <i>‘chalo, chalo, let us go out’</i>’ and we will each take out our 4 cars, one for each person, no, no, the word ‘car-pooling’ does not exist in our dictionaries.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And then we will go out and proudly gloat over the new swanky malls and buildings coming up in areas that were marked for ‘garden Projects’&nbsp; by the city.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Gleefully, we will spit and compete on who can redden a public building corner first.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And write ‘Tinku loves Pinku’ on World-Heritage buildings. While our children observe us and mimic us and grow up inheriting these ‘legacies’. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Oh, yes and how can we forget updating our FB status spaces with claims of how we love India and how glorious it is and what-nots?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;So we walk around like proud peacocks, never mind the fact that we, actually have done absolutely nothing for the nation.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;So why not start now?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Say no to that <i>babu </i>asking for a bribe. Say no to that person throwing rubbish onto the roads.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Educate. Teach. Act.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Do something at the grassroots level.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It doesn’t have to be major.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Stop favoring child-labour. Instead, help to send that child to school. Doesn’t he deserve an education just like your children do?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Just do something, anything, and then be truly proud. &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;You should actually start off by not smirking at this note written by someone who is changing and has hopes that you will too.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;No realization is too late.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;People died for freedom, and they died because they dreamt of an India free of corruption, sex-discrimination, red-tapism, feudalism, fanaticism.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Not this seedy worm-infested underbelly of ‘India Shining’.</span></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/x9nKespQQ40" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com3http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/08/mera-bharat-mahan-par-mein-nahin.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-72455237003154309302011-08-05T13:24:00.011+08:002012-04-27T17:16:13.101+08:00From Pappa with Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: #dbf1fc; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: nowrap;">This entry is a part of the contest at <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" target="_blank" title="The Largest and the most active community of Indian Bloggers">BlogAdda.com</a> in association with <a href="http://www.imlee.com/" target="_blank" title="Your Khatti Meethi Family">imlee.com</a></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">'I'm 29 years old, Pappa. 29. Not 2. Not 9.' I almost shout at him just before he leaves for work. But I know it wouldn't change a thing. Even if I had that tattooed over my forehead.&nbsp;</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />Pappa will still distribute his pearls of wisdom (or in his case, rusted bits)....Mummy rolls her eyes and goes back to weaving magic with the broom and mop in her hand. She rubs a little of the broom on the floor, n voila, like Cinderalla, I'm transported into a squeaking clean house. Well more of her later. <br /><br />The reason why my blood is boiling over now is because I have been subject to Pappa's free advice ever since I woke up at 7 this morning. More reason why I should stay in bed till he leaves. <br />So that on working days, when Mummy is already in school, n he is leaving at 9, he wakes me up just in time to shut the door. Those are days that I can escape from the grim reality that in his eyes, I'm still a child.<br /><br />It starts off in the morning, like I said before. Let me say, I wake up at 7.00 am. The one-way preamble goes something like this.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /><b>7.00 am </b>- I am stirring in bed, listening to my parents talking in the living room. I lie there for some time, but then my kidneys threaten me. So I shuffle to the Loo, n there he catches me on my way out. '<u>Open ur eyes n walk. U will bang onto the walls or stumble over something n fall down.</u>' I cannot attack as my body is still getting used to the whole waking-thing.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>But yes, he is a witness to the numerous days that I have walked into a wall, (with a bang), all bleary-eyed and yawning.</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i><b>7.10 am</b> - I pour the tea into a cup, n inevitably 2 miniscule drops fall out. There he is again, just behind me with some waste cloth (which usually turns out to be the duppatta mum has kept aside to starch, n which, on her finding out, gets Pappa a shouting..*chuckles*). '<u>Wipe up all this. And don't spill any eatable-thingies. The flies will be crowding the whole house now'</u>.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>For those who don't know, the house is on the 7th floor of a multi-storeyed buidling, invincible against flies and mosquitoes.</i><br /><br /><b>7.15 am</b> - I have finished drinking my tea and am reading the newspaper. The empty cup is on the centre-table next to my propped-up feet. '<u>You will swing your feet in style, n that cup will fall down n break into pieces</u>'. So saying, he takes the cup n deposits it in the place where it rightfully belongs, in the sink, next to the other cups.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>It is another matter, that we do have a macabre collection of cups, missing their handles, spouts, bottoms. Courtesy - Mummy n I on one of our butter-fingery spree, most of which took place, when I was doing what I'm doing now.</i><br /><br /><b>7.30 am </b>- He has gone down to bring the Municipality drinking water supply. He refuses to let me bring it. It is just one bucket after all.&nbsp;Oh, so there he appears,&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"<u>Atleast keep the drinking water-container (which looks more like a rocket-launcher with its little legs and snout) open. So that it is easier for me to fill it up</u>"<br />The days that I do keep it open, for his ease, the advice is&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"<u>Why did u keep this open? The pigeons will come n shit in it.</u>"&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Wow, since when did Pigeons know exactly which one of all those million vessels lying there, is the drinking water-wala vessel, at potty-time?</i><br />(I'm sure u have guessed by now, that I'm absolutely not retorting to any of these pearlies. Didn't Gandhiji say, turn the other 'ear'...?)<br />By this time, I'm counting the minutes that I will be putting up with this 'gyaan'.<br /><br /><b>8.15 am</b> - He is dressed to go to work, looking at the things that need last-minute adjustments (<i>like dyeing his moustache black with Mummy's eyebrow pencil, and Mummy still doesn't know why her eyebrow pencil is always blunt when she is about to use it, no matter how much she sharpens it</i>). At this time there are 2-3 things that he throws my way.<br /><br /> -"<u>Keep the windows and doors closed, the pigeons will make a nest otherwise, in the lofts</u>". Which is true. I'm trying to make this particular pigeon-couple my pet, n therefore invite them in with bits of food and 'Ghoo-Ghoo' noises. That the female pigeon gets attracted to me, mistaking me to be another male, is something I don't want to comment on.<br /><br /> -"<u>Switch off the other electrical appliances when u switch on the A.C. - it draws more load than the allotted load, n a short-circuit will occur n the whole building will burn down.</u>"<br />Blame it on his being an engineer, or his being a Rules-follower, at night, he wakes up after we have slept, to quietly tiptoe down to the kitchen n switch off the fridge. The fridge is rendered un-openable the next morning, n Mummy is in a hopping rage, but of course he knows it.<br /><br /> -"<u>Do not wash my white shirts and baniyans with the rest of the clothes. They will all be spoiled.</u>" - He rummages around and picks up a shirt (<i>which, because of sins committed by Mummy in the past, she unwittingly washed with the others in the machine, n now it sports a 2mm by 2mm stain in the front</i>) and dangles it in front of me. When I refuse to look up at him. He thrusts the shirt into the sacred, holy space between the paper and my face. The rabid, foaming look I give him is enough to make him scurry away.<br /><br /><b>8.30 am</b> - There now, he is looking for his socks.&nbsp;"<u>Where are they. My socks. these are Mummy's. Why don't u tie up the pairs? So that I don't have to waste time looking for them or pairing them up!</u>'&nbsp;</span></div><div><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why Mummy would want to wear Men's socks is something only she can answer, but there are 56 pairs of socks all tied up neatly, kept on full display in the corner-stand, and yet he rummages around, looking for the newest pair to wear.</span></i></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i>By this time I'm losing my patience. The irritation starts showing. And I'm about to explode.<br /><br /><b>8.40 am</b> - Now he picks up his bag. His tiffin-box and his mobile. His specs. His watch. The ten-rupee notes and loose currency for his autorickshaw-walas. And then finally he is out of the door.<br /><br />I anticipate the last string of advices almost eagerly. For after that is Redemption. Hallelujah.<br /><br /> -"<u>Do not open the door if someone knocks</u>". Oh did I tell u, that we don't have a peephole! If I ask "Why don't u fix a peephole here, Pappa?", he replies "<u>What if someone points a gun at it n shoots. Or pokes something through.</u>" Absolutely no idea, when he got that idea, because we did have a peephole in our previous house.<br /><br /> -"<u>Do not agree if someone knocks the door and asks for water</u>". <i>Well, I suggest that perhaps, I could just show that person the drinking water container which is, supposedly, full of pigeon droppings. No? No. This time I get the rabid look.</i><br /><br /> -'<u>They (no idea who 'they' are) will come saying there is a courier for you. They will quickly see that you are alone and then they will come back with more people to break open and steal and go knows what else.</u>"<br />&nbsp;-"<u>Do not open the door to any lady who says she is selling things. These women are more dangerous, as no one suspects them.</u>"<br /><i>All through these, I have no idea on how to find out if the knocker is a courier-wala or a lady-selling-bra-panty-pickle-detergentpowder-neemfacepack, unless I OPEN the damned door. We don't have a peephole, remember?</i><br /><br />'Aaaaaarrrggghhhhhh' - I scream (in a whisper, of course).&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mummy was so right when she said - "When ur Dad retires, he can put up a table n chair under a garden umbrella, right at the crossroads, with a board that says 'Nair-saab nu free-advice ni dukaan'...!"<br /><br />There it is. The last one. Quick, get it out Pappa, so that I can go back to Peace.<br /><br />"<u>Bolt in all the 3 places. This is a flimsy door. Will break into two if u kick it 10 times</u>".<br /><i>I do not want to point to the hinges and say that it will take 'them' just one screw-driver to have the whole 'jaali' n door in 'their' hands. </i><br /><br />"<u>Did I forget something? You and your Mummy don't remind me anything. See how that Aunty on the 8th floor takes care of her husband.</u>"&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Right at this moment, Mummy rolls her eyes again, n shouts from the kitchen - 'Well if the 8th floor Aunty is so nice, you can ask her to cook for you and remind you everyday. Don't start me off, now".</i><br /><br />This is where the ice melts. Pappa winks at me. I let my lips curl a little at the corner.<br />And then he, yet again asks, all serious. The last one. I can see it coming.<br /><br />"<u>Did I forget something?' Wallet, Mobile, Specs?</u>"<br />"Your brains. Did you take your brains from the pickle-jar, Pappa?" I ask.<br /><br />He smiles. I smile.<br />There the irritation is replaced by a sense of being cared for.<br />I shut the door and go back to my newspaper.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />Until another day, another morning, another round of 'advices' from a father to his daughter.</span></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/tH3UcoMwFNU" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com4http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/08/from-pappa-with-love.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-51404336212027249192011-07-28T00:04:00.005+08:002012-06-25T15:32:43.986+08:00An Ode to My Achamma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It is never too late to write about her, I think. About my grandmother. Achamma. Father's Mother. Paternal Grandmother. But it is. And the Truth stares me in the face. That it has already been 2 years since she passed away. Since she died. And that she will no longer be there, hovering around me, touching my hair, now, then my face, mumbling about evil-eyes being cast, grumbling why I do not grow my hair long, praising my eyes here, my nose, the little admonishments that only a beloved grandchild can receive.</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She was old as far back as I can remember, even then, 25 years ago. Gnarled and wrinkled and slender with a flat stomach and a willowy figure, the last two which, thankfully, I have inherited, or so people tell me. Ancient, with the fragrance of the herbs and aromatic oils wrapped about her.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;My first memories are of her in the old kitchen, bent over the 'adup', blowing into the flames with a coil. The smoke never seemed to bother her, and I was always amazed at the dishes she would conjure out of those holes in the ground like my mum called them, much later, much much later.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Acchamma had studied till the 2nd grade and since then, had looked after her siblings (1 sister and 2 brothers, all younger to her). She had come to Gujarat as a bride, married to my grandfather, but then returned to the large ancestral house when my father was born. My grandfather was a always in a new and foreign place. He fought in the British army during World War II, like my great-grandfather(his Father-In-Law) did during World war-I, went to Rangoon, Singapore, Ceylon and many other places. So Achamma was left alone for the most part. Not alone in the strictest sense, having been with her siblings and their families, while my father studied in Gujarat for some time and then returned to do his engineering in Kerala. But mostly she was away from her husband and it was not a big deal those days. People got married because they had to, because the elders thought they were ready to produce children. She brought up dad amidst a medley of children, women, and old people. The men were all in Ahmedabad, where my grandfather had got them jobs. So she stayed with the women.</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I do not know why I'm writing this. I guess it is because talking about the riots helped to take off a load from my mind. And I hope this will too. Because of what we did to her in her old age. Because of what we did not give her, even though, day and night, she pined for us and we refused to give her company. The guilt sits on me, my family like a suffocating cloud of some deadly, poisonous gas. A heavy cloud that chokes me whenever I remember her. She grew old and bent and her feet turned inwards and at night she had her knees giving her trouble. So much that in the last 3-4 years, she could barely walk. Grandfather and she lived all alone in that huge ancestral house, and we were away in Ahmedabad. First because of our studies, we couldnt go to Kerala every year. Then I moved to Bangalore and my brother to North India, my parents still working in Ahmedabad - things were so hectic. So we went to visit them in turns. And each time she would lament when she would see all four of us together I wished I was selfless enough to spend more time with her than the 20 days in a year, that too divided between my mother's house and father's house. The last time she had seen us all together was almost 8 years ago.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Hoping that she would have something to do in her spare time, we brought her a T.V which she never learnt how to operate, and so would wait for grandfather to switch it on after dinner. I tried to teach her, but she was so self-conscious and she believed that she could never learn it, because of which she never did learn it. Grandfather sold his house, the one where he had brought her as a bride to, because she inherited her father's house. So grandfather held that grudge, that he had to leave his own house and stay in his wife's house. It was all a pretence. He actually hated her brother, who would keep asking her for money and which she would pass on stealthily. This was a habit, people loved her for and often took advantage of. &nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In those days, as even now, albeit less, Nairs being the second most important caste after the Namboothris, had their own set of rules and customs. My grandmother was born into one of the most important Nair families in the village, and therefore she was brought up in that way. When she would step outside, the servants ran ahead, shouting out to warn the others that 'Thambraati' was on her way to this place or that place, and so the low-caste people would hide away, to let her pass, keeping a distance as even their shadow was not supposed to fall on her retinue of servants and maids. She would hold the wooden parasol to cover her face from the men. She told me all this in detail, on many a star-spangled night when it was too hot to lie inside the small wooden recess that was her bedroom. She told me how, the women then, were locked inside a room while they were menstruating, and how her first blood was sprinkled on the fields to bring prosperity. All this she told me. How women were supposed to always be one step behind their husbands and listen and behave as the 'maryada' of the house was in their hands. How until about the 90s, the low-caste women and men in the village still maintained a distance from her, and never looked at her while addressing her, always with hands bowed and gaze lowered. And yet, never once, did she force my mum or me to give up our western clothes. In fact she had never asked us to change anything, savouring the fact, instead, that we were both, my mum and I, independent women. Like the time, when, a relative asked her, 'My daughter had 2 kids at the age of 25, why is Shilpa still unmarried?' and she had answered, haughtily, in her Nair way, 'Because at the age of 25, Shilpa was busy buying her own car bought with her own money, doing a job, instead of producing children and sitting at home!'...She was uneducated, yet fiercely independent, ignorant, yet modern.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And yet, we had no time to call her up everyday. 5 minutes every Sunday was what we allotted her. That was it.&nbsp;Through all this, we&nbsp;withheld&nbsp;what was rightfully hers. The right to spend time with us. The right to comb her fingers through my hair, the right to teach me how to manage a household, or why it was important to pray to God. She was deeply religious, yet she accepted my being an agnostic, without any questions. If she could not make me go to the temple, she would send money with the passersby, to have them take 'Pushpanjali' in our names. Once I wore a 'pattu-pavadai' for her and put jasmine in my hair and a bindi, and she was so delighted, she clapped her hands and said I looked like a goddess.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I wish, I had been selfless enough to stop thinking my job was my life, and instead spend more time with her. But God had thought otherwise. 2 years ago, while I woke up all excited that it was my birthday, she died. Quite suddenly. She had had a heart-attack, we suspected, and she had simply fallen on her way to the bathroom at 5 in the morning. Grandfather had rushed to her side, but she was lifeless by then. No suffering, no agony, no pain. I hope for the last two atleast. And just like that, on the day of my birth, she passed away. What use were my tears then? I heard the news on my way to office, and I still went to work for strangers. I could have taken the flight to Kerala, but no like the true Dharamraj, I went to office, and then took the evening train, by the time I reached there the next morning, I could only see the urn containing her ashes. I was too late. This time too.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And now Grandfather stays alone, guarding that 100 year old, ancient, huge mansion for a house, looking forward to our weekly calls, or the occasional visitor. Atleast, I hope, he will enjoy his rights with his family. Us.</span></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/83vMGJlXHHk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com4http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/07/ode-to-my-achamma.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-5861221206023852292011-07-23T20:29:00.015+08:002012-05-11T15:41:58.012+08:00Revenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #660000;" /></span></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This post has been published by me as a part of the <b>Blog-a-Ton 22</b>; the twenty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following <a href="http://blogaton.in/"><b>Blog-a-Ton</b></a>.</span></span></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c;"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span></span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The first sensation Junaid felt was pain. Intense, throbbing, scalding. The pain travelled through his veins, all the way to his spine, n then up to the back of his head. He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. Bile coursed through his throat. He tried to force his left eye open first, since that one did not throb like the right one. Voices floated around. Consciousness&nbsp;<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">jolted him to the reality</span>&nbsp;that he was hanging upside&nbsp;<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">down.</span></span>&nbsp;Khaki clad policemen lounged around a table, interrogating another man. '<i>P....Paani....Please give me some water</i>'......Junaid painfully formed the words. One of the men in Khaki &nbsp;cocked his head at Junaid.&nbsp;</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘<i>Ah-a,&nbsp;look who has woken up. Apna hero.</i>’ – the inspector came upto him.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He pulled Junaid’s hair and jerked his head upright. Noxious fumes emanated from his mouth, as he leered – ‘<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Saale, kya re biwi ka nanga naach dekh raha tha sapne mein? Arrey Patel, chal isko leja interrogation room mein. Muh nahi khola toh encounter karva de. Waise bhi yeh Momeddian</span><span class="Apple-style-span">*</span><i>&nbsp;paida karne mein peeche nahi hote. 4-5 aaj mar jaayenge toh bhi kisiko fark nahi padta</i>.’&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The paunchy constable sneered, and dragged him, half-stumbling, half-crawling to the chair that had just been vacated by the other man. Someone threw a cup of salt water on his face. He cried out with the stinging pain. The nightmare started all over again as he recalled the events that led upto this moment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;February 27<sup>th</sup>&nbsp;2002 was just like any other day. There was a wedding in the small non-descript town of Godhra and all the Muslims had gathered at the community centre. Colorful Shamianas, kohl-lined women, huge mounds of biryani&nbsp;&nbsp;in the makeshift kitchen, little boys scaring little girls with their palms colored by goat blood, the little girls screaming, admonishing mothers, advising grandmothers, blushing nubile women, smoking men, hookahs, chillums, henna……….it was a&nbsp;<i>mela</i>&nbsp;of colors, smells, fragrances, sounds. Junaid was one of the many men sitting around the gulmohar trees smoking and passing the time in idle chatter. Dressed in a blue sherwani, he was the Best Man at his brother’s wedding.&nbsp;&nbsp;He glanced over at the women’s tents and caught his wife scowling at him for smoking non-stop. He winked at her. Shabnam smiled and hid behind her veil. They were expecting their first child and she was glowing with happiness. He whispered his gratitude to Allah and rejoined the men’s conversation.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was the sight of the running boys that set his heart aflutter. Something was wrong. The group of boys were running in their direction, horror writ large on their faces.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;‘<i>Aapa, Aapa’, BhaiJan, Umma</i>’&nbsp;they shouted all together at once, making it hard for the men to comprehend anything.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;‘<i>What happened</i>?’ The men rose as one, as did the women.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Hearts thumped and trembling hands muffled terrified open mouths. One of the boys, sat down, and, in between gulping huge mouthfuls of air, blurted out&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;‘<i>They burnt a train compartment. The Rashtra-Sevaks were travelling in the train. They have burnt the compartment they were travelling in. They bolted the compartments from outside.&nbsp;&nbsp;They have burnt a whole train bogie</i>.’….</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Junaid shook the boy.&nbsp;‘<i>Who burnt whom? Who was in the bogie? Who burnt the bogie? Did u see them? Who, tell me…</i>!’…</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Another boy shouted. ‘<i>I saw them. We saw the men who did it. They were dressed like one of us, but they are not from our village.** They had neither hennaed hair, nor the marks on their foreheads. They were dressed like us, BhaiJan, but they were not Muslims. We saw them so close. There were so many children and women. They were all burnt alive. They were pushed back inside when they tried to escape</i>.’&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;A collective shout of ‘Ya Allah’ went up.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Eamrc6Z8-kc/TiaO6W5WjYI/AAAAAAAAC-Q/qlVtaBBdSlw/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Eamrc6Z8-kc/TiaO6W5WjYI/AAAAAAAAC-Q/qlVtaBBdSlw/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KJoXddkzZgo/TiaPcwK1_wI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/zgIVO1ALN6M/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KJoXddkzZgo/TiaPcwK1_wI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/zgIVO1ALN6M/s1600/images.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Inspector Solanki and Sub-Inspector Patel scanned the crowd apprehensively, exchanging glances everytime the crowd shouted ‘Jai Shri Ram’. This was the part they hated most about their jobs. All this meddling with Politics. It was always better and simpler to belong to an age where all that the policemen had to do was arrest criminals and extract baksheesh. But they knew if&nbsp;&nbsp;they did not toe the politicians’ lines, they would not have a job anymore. It came as a package deal with the Khaki uniforms, hidden deep inside the pockets. The Rashtra-Sevaks were hardcore Hindu fanatics. Bharat’s lost glory must be brought back at all costs. And the only way was to&nbsp;&nbsp;drive all the Muslims away and stop Western culture from influencing the minds of Hindu children.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Saheb Mackeray’s tongue was working overtime to ‘awaken’ the Bharatiyas in the crowd. Saffron was the color of the day as people, mostly unemployed youth, gathered in large numbers with knives, swords and what-nots. ‘<i>Show these Muslims that this is our country. How dare they touch our Sevak-Bhais and Behens? How dare they roast alive 50 sevaks, without fear, like this? Have we worn bangles? Do they think we are wearing cholis? Answer me,&nbsp;&nbsp;will you remain quiet when someone does this to your country? Show them that we are tigers and not hyenas like them. Rise and come with me to teach them a lesson</i>’. The crowd roared ‘Jai Shri Ram’ and lunged forward. A tsunami of angry men and women would cause serious trouble. Solanki and others of his rank were called in from Ahmedabad for a meeting, in which Saheb Mackeray had strictly ordered them to take leave and go on holidays with their families, preferably out of the city. The sequel to the 1992 riots was in the making.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3jHSTJfyGso/TiaPLh2fulI/AAAAAAAAC-U/rhmpAhIaARc/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3jHSTJfyGso/TiaPLh2fulI/AAAAAAAAC-U/rhmpAhIaARc/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;They gheraoed the village, baying for blood. &nbsp;Swords, Sickles, Knives, Saffron bandannas, Trishuls, Rudraksh malas drenched in sweat. Engineers, Teachers, Students, Boys, Men, Teens, Blacksmiths, Officials, Shopkeepers, Masons, Plumbers, Slum-Dwellers, Builders - all bound in their frenzied rage of Hinduism. Systematically, so systematically one would shudder at the meticulous planning that must have gone into it, they went to each house, hacking up the men, raping the women, cutting down children. The babies were held by the feet and bashed against the nearest standing structure. Little girls were stripped naked and their buttocks split open in glee. The women howled like banshees, and ran. Many jumped into the tubewells, but who could hear their howls. The emergency numbers were dialled. But the phones kept ringing. Many set their own children on fire, to save them from this army of 'Rakshaks-turned-Rakshasas'. Junaid’s wife had a sword up her uterus. They brandished the foetus atop the sword, for all to see.*** Within hours, Godhra became famous. By the time the media descended on the village, by the time, the rest of this 'Vibrant' state, came to know of the horrors perpetrated by a handful of men, the raiders had vanished. There were no eye-witnesses. None whatsoever. They had left four men behind. Badly beaten and flayed, but alive. For the records. So that the world would know what happened. Junaid was one of them. After the marauding army had erased its coming, the police came. After they digested their 'samosas' and 'bataka-vadas' and 'cha-naashto', they came. The heroes. The policemen. Solanki picked up the four men. They were not even allowed to have a last glimpse. The nightmare had started for Junaid. And for everyone in Gujarat.</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;After 15 days in police custody, Junaid was released. ‘<i>Upar se enquiry kar rahe hain. CM bola jail mein ek bhi Muslim nahi dikhna chaiye. Dilli se log aave toh lagna chahiye na ki protection sabka ho raha hain? Jaa aish kar.</i>’ – a havildar informed him.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The word went round and round in Junaid’s head. The village where he had returned to, was long gone. In its place was a mound of dead bodies, that pariah dogs, vultures and other scavengers had chewed on. It was difficult to identify anyone from the burnt, mutilated and charred pieces that were once living human beings. The tears refused to flow. The four men now had stones for hearts. ‘<i>We will avenge this. But not now. To strike terror in their hearts, we need to plan. We need to plan and then show them. We will avenge this</i>.’ – they swore on the mud caked with dried blood.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Junaid stood up. ‘<i>Until I have my revenge, I will not rest.</i>’&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The four men looked strangely calm as they locked eyes and nodded. Slowly. Seriously.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black;">"<i>We are with you, BhaiJan. But we must plan before we do something rash.</i>" - Salim said. "<i>We must properly plan first.&nbsp;</i></span><i>I know some people in Indian Mujaheedin in Mumbai. They will help us. They are experienced. And&nbsp;</i><i>But first, we will go to Ahmedabad. Our brothers there are in peril.</i>'&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Junaid saw reason where there was none. Yes, he would wait. And then he would have his Revenge.&nbsp;</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Ahmedabad station was deserted. Never before had they seen it so empty. The paan-stained corridors spoke of the violent lashings that had taken place here too. On guard, they crept out and into the Muslim-dominated area of the old city. They stayed with Salim's brother. For four days, the men sat and planned. Righ in the middle of this Muslim-'infested' area, as the Sevaks had called it, was a Hindu <i>pol</i>****They took an oath to wipe out every Hindu in that walled enclave.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Less than a month later, the community had geared up to have their revenge. The <i>fajr</i>&nbsp;that day concluded with a cryptic note 'Doodh ma jeher chhe' - This was the signal to start the attacks on the Hindus. Junaid, Salim and the others came out and surrounded the Hindu <i>pol </i>from all sides. Inside while the families huddled to escape the clutches of their neighbours,</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Junaid clambered onto the walls, and poured kerosene over each house. House after house, compound wall after compound wall was conquered with shouts of 'Allah, Allah' over-riding the &nbsp;terrified screams of children, women, men piercing the air. Suddenly it was all over. In a matter of minutes. The police jeeps came blaring. This time, they arrived on time. CRPF jawans sprang out, lobbied teargas shells. Junaid and his companions scampered back to the relative safety of their <i>pols</i>.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was while he was springing over the last wall, that he saw her.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;A little girl of about four or five years of age.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Naked.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Naked except for the torn away remnants of a soft-toy's hand clutched in her fist. Beside the mutilated body of her mother, she sat, crying in the pitiful way that only a child can.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Junaid wanted to throw his head back and laugh.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;His first laughter after 28th February.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But somehow he could not muster the, what was it, guts? manliness? courage?...</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;No no, isn't this what he wanted? Revenge? To feel satiated? To have his wife's death avenged? To have his village's rape avenged? Suddenly, the little girl looked at him, no not at him but straight through him, as if he did not exist. She continued crying.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Junaid wondered, why, if Revenge was indeed sweet, his mouth was all Bitter inside. All Bitter.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">******************************************************************************</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- This is the first time I have spoken openly about the riots. On 26<sup>th</sup>&nbsp;February 2002, I passed the Sabarmati Express stationed at Godhra, on my way back to Ahmedabad from Mumbai, where I had gone for the NIFT entrance exams. I had not even heard of this place until it was in the news the next day. We had barely started to recover from the trauma of the 2001 Earthquake when the 2002 Riots were thrust upon us.&nbsp;</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>*Mommedian - Used to describe Muslims in Ahmedabad. For eg. Autorickshaw driver to passenger – ‘Arrey madam, woh to Momeddian ka area hain, 20 rs extra dena padega.’<o:p></o:p></i></span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>**'they were not muslims' - &nbsp;Disputed. There were claims that the doors were bolted from inside and that the Sevaks themselves had burnt their own members.&nbsp;</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>*** 'foetus atop a sword' - As per the testimony by the Doctor in the Mumbai retrials – he claimed that the foetus was found inside the uterus of the women and not ‘flung aside’ as the media reported. However so strong was the belief that this had been done, that I remember crying on hearing it.<o:p></o:p></i></span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>**** 'pol' - A gated cluster of houses demarcated according to caste, clan etc.&nbsp;</i></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></i></span><br /><i style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black;">Oh n btw, if I was allowed to submit my older posts for B-A-T, I would have submitted&nbsp;</span><a href="http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/04/i-have-angel-for-sister.html">http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/04/i-have-angel-for-sister.html</a>&nbsp;the one I think would do perfect justice to the title Revenge.</span></i><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The <b>fellow Blog-a-Tonics</b> who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective <b>posts</b> can be checked <a href="http://blogaton.in/2011/07/rules-and-reminder-for-blog-ton-22.html#comments"><b>here</b></a>. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following <b><a href="http://blogaton.in/">Blog-a-Ton</a></b>.</span></blockquote></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/0IF60bQeuws" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com18http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/07/revenge.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-79175265865054121032011-06-19T20:51:00.002+08:002012-07-13T09:04:33.265+08:00A bus-load of Stink<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She wrinkled her nose in dismay.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Oh, How he stank!<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;This fat one next to her. How he stank!<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was no space in the crowded bus and already people were in each other's armpits.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Where could she move to? She tried to turn her face away, away from the source of this stink. But she was trapped. There were so many of her kind here. Jam-packed.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;To make things worse, he 'oozed the stink' now!<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Oh, God! How longer could she bear? He was oozing something vicious smelling and sticky. And it would rub off on her, if she didn't move.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She had to get out of the way!!!<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And then relief flooded her as the driver braked suddenly and the fat one rolled out, leaving her enough air to gulp down.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'Oh no........!' the driver cried out.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3BG84r1NefU/T6ouxFi4BWI/AAAAAAAAFuQ/yEO52ZKzwBo/s1600/images+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3BG84r1NefU/T6ouxFi4BWI/AAAAAAAAFuQ/yEO52ZKzwBo/s1600/images+(1).jpg" /></a></div><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'Don't worry. It was rotten. The other mangoes are still here....'another man replied, as he tucked her into the basket.</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/MDDj1XoqRsM" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com3http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/06/bus-load-of-stink.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-53963980299573093442011-06-18T11:38:00.012+08:002012-05-24T17:42:33.130+08:00The Blah-Blah and The GasMe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Just when I thought I had enough of Dhongi Blah-Blah RamDev, I am now being bombarded by Sai Blah-Blah's hidden wealth. <i>(btw, love the word Blah-Blah - coined by my genius of a brother)</i></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img alt="DhongiBaba" height="200" src="http://a5.mzstatic.com/us/r1000/043/Purple/ed/b3/ec/mzl.xgttxcsh.jpg" width="200" /> </div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But why is everyone surprised? I don't think it should come as a shock to anyone that all these Swamis have ill-gotten wealth stashed away in their orange underwear. What are these poor Swamis supposed to do. Wear one loincloth and walk around giving free advice? Donate all their wealth to charity? Come on, India has so many children unable to afford food or education or healthcare; so many mothers with no access to healthcare; so many elderly thrown out of their homes; that this wealth cannot cover all their needs. The Great Swami-Babas know this. That their wealth is too little to feed one whole village for the next 100 years. They are knowledgeable. They are wise. That is why we drink the water which has been used to wash their feet. They are holy. We are ready to be made pawns in their political games. While we donate thinking our hard-earned money will be blessed by Baba and sent to some charity, they sit on it and warm it. Until this whole stash of currency notes and gold and silver is so hot that they need to levitate from time to time by making one small tiny hospital promising free healthcare.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And how dare you say that they are materialistic? Haven't they renounced the materialistic world of India and taken refuge in the Swiss banks? How can you say they are attached to this world?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Also they are God-men. You must never, ever offend a God-man in India. There are thousands of fools behind them who will run amok in hysteria cutting up whoever they think is an opposer of this self-made regime.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Did you know that Homosexuality is a disease?! What you didn't? How foolish you are, Bhakt! Come here, and do yoga with me. Yoga will cure everything. This corrupt disease called Homosexuality as well as cancer. I also want to say, it can cure AIDS, but not now. I will say it later when the incredulous doctors and scientists, whose brains are miniscule in size compared to my unschooled wise brain, calm down. So come and do Yoga. I have been practising Yoga for years. It is another matter that Yoga cannot 'cure' fasting.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Looking at all the clowns in saffron robes now, I have decided to change my career.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I'm now officially Sutli-maiyya. Come and listen to my nonsense. Membership fees only Rs 50,000. Though I cannot do bellydancing like them, I can make Tin jewellery(since i'm still a new-comer in this business) appear from thin air. If I do not get 4 members by tomorrow evening, I will go on indefinite fast.</span></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/PCW8dPwygnE" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com5http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/06/blah-blah-and-gasme.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26159252.post-6981416961030412842011-06-17T22:17:00.007+08:002012-05-11T16:05:30.162+08:00Hangover<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This was the second version of my entry for 'The Other day' @B-A-T. Yes u guessed it right - I am totally obsessed by relationships ;)</span></i><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Selma switched off the A.C. She knit her eyebrows together. Her head throbbed and her mouth tasted of bile. Last night's events unfolded in her mind without any order or clarity. Tumbled forth randomly. <i>What exactly had happened 'yester-night'? </i></span><br /><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></i><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She had had no idea why she chose to look for Zarine in the Nursery. Her daughter was away at her parents'. It had to be the drinks. The whisky was running out and she wanted to ask Rutul to get some. He was not there in the Living Room, neither in the Kitchen. The tequila shots hadn't gone down completely, n she had tottered, grabbed at curtains, leaned on railings, while she had gone looking for Rutul. Maybe her subconscious mind had given her the idea that Rutul was putting Zarine into bed. Or maybe it was her intuition. Something that she would rather not take seriously. Years ago, her intuition had told her, Rutul was not the right guy to marry. But she had gone ahead and married him and it had turned out to be great. They had had a fantastic house, fantastic friends and a fantastic Life. Absolutely no way, she was going to spoil things for herself, by listening to the loony-bin inside her. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And so last night, for some reason she didn't know, her body had stumbled and fumbled and somehow reached upstairs. In the loud din of the Music blaring out from the Living Room, her shouts were drowned. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There it was. the Nursery. Just after the master bedroom and the guest bedroom. No that was the master bedroom, this was the guest bedroom. Forget it. She had peered inside one of the rooms. Nope. No Rutul. She had then, headed straight for the Nursery. <i>Wait a minute, the Nursery was on the other side, why had she come here? To this part where only the bedrooms were? </i>Selma shakes her head. Too many drinks. Recall. Remember Selma, what do you remember? Yes, she had passed the first room. And she had heard a noise. Or a voice. She wasn't sure. But it had sounded like someone laughing. giggling. Or maybe a 'Gosh'. Something like that. Something that kicked her from the inside. She had looked for the door. There. Just ahead. Straining through hazy-unfocused eyes, she had managed to clasp the door-jamb. She did not recall if she opened it, or someone opened it for her. All she knew was that she had fallen into the room.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Into Rutul's arms.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;He was naked. Yes, he was. But why? And he was sweating. And he smelt of some familiar scent. She did not know what. But it was a scent that had been around in their house recently.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <i>&nbsp;If only she hadn't been so befuddled. She would have been out of this confusing maze now. </i></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Rutul had said something. <i>Something. </i>What?&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;'Selma, What are you doing here?' Yes. He had asked her what she was doing there. And she had giggled. Like a fool. 'I came to look for you. Why aren't you downstairs?'...He was trying to block her view of the room. Almost trying to wrestle her out. 'I want to lie down for some time. My head is spinning. Please put me into bed, Rutul.' And she had stepped past him. And fallen again. He disappeared for a second. &nbsp; &nbsp;Leaving her on the floor.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;A split second.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;During which she thought there was a mannequin on the bed. A head of raven curls. A wig, that moved. And then he was back. He carried her into bed. 'I saw a wig here. Where is it?' she asked him. Looking under the sheets. Flailing with her arms. 'There is no one here darling. No one. You take some rest. I had come here to change my stained shirt. I will get some lemonade for you, and an aspirin.'.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There she had seen it again. A head of curls disappearing through the door. Yes, she was sure of it. Or was she</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Later, she had dreamt of an army of curly-wigs attacking her. Running after her. Baying for her blood. And she had woken up screaming.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was something wrong. This was the guest bedroom. And Rutul's clothes were in the master bedroom. So what was he doing here last night. She had examined the room, and especially the sheets. She sniffed at them. <i>Where had she smelt that scent before?</i></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="133" src="http://static.indianexpress.com/m-images/Sat%20Apr%2030%202011,%2009:17%20hrs/M_Id_212423_infidelity.jpg" width="200" /> </div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a knock at the door. A knock followed by a sweet female voice. 'Are you up, sweetie?' And Parul pushes open the door with her foot, balancing a tea-tray in her hands. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Parul, her childhood friend. Who has come to stay with them for some months. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The wig of curls. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And Selma recalls with complete clarity, all the missing details.</span></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ServingsOfMania/~4/wwgjR25wiA4" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Shilpa Nairnoreply@blogger.com6http://shilpa-nair.blogspot.com/2011/06/hangover.html